


Princes of Silver and Gold

by sifshadowheart



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: All the Warnings Apply, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Attempted Murder, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Betrayal, Dragonriders, Dragons, F/M, House Targaryen, M/M, Male Slash, Mpreg, Multi, Murder, Non-Canon Relationship, Pre-Slash, Slash, Slow Burn, Targaryen-Era, This is Game of Thrones, Threesome - M/M/M, Treason
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-03-30 03:06:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 95,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13941252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sifshadowheart/pseuds/sifshadowheart
Summary: The Next Great Adventure wasn't quite what Harry had expected. First, he hadn't thought he'd be reborn as a baby. Let alone to a family of dragon-mad royals.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [StarLight_Massacre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/StarLight_Massacre/gifts).



** Princes of Gold and Silver **

**_A Harry Potter/Game of Thrones Crossover_ **

_By Sif Shadowheart_

Disclaimer:  Harry Potter, Game of Thrones, and A Song of Ice and Fire all belong to their respective owners/authors.  This is fan-authored fiction for the purpose of entertainment only with no monetary gain attached.

_Author’s Note: The title of the Prologue comes from this poem:_

_My life closed twice before its close—_

_It yet remains to see_

_If Immortality unveil_

_A third event to me_

_So huge, so hopeless to conceive_

_As these that twice befell._

_Parting is all we know of heaven,_

_And all we need of hell._

  * _Emily Dickenson_



**Prologue: All We Know of Heaven**

“I am about to die.”

Harry wished he could say he was surprised then the Snitch slid open, revealing a thing he’d only become aware of existing a week or so ago: The Resurrection Stone.

Dumbledore, that old bastard, Harry laughed to himself shaking his head.

He knew that he’d been groomed at this point, shaped and molded, or as Snape had put it “raised like a pig for slaughter.”  A test every year, a challenge to harden him in the fires of struggle and strife.  No connections beyond his friends, nothing to tether him to this life.

Nothing to live for but everything to die for, Dumbledore had trained him well, the old coot.

Turning the stone thrice in hand, Harry looked up to see a trio of shades staring at him in various stages of grief and mourning.

A man with Harry’s messy hair and much of his facial structure.

A woman with the same shape of eyes that were a brilliant green in life.

And last a man older than his companion by almost two decades, with scars marring his handsome face, but somehow made all the gentler for it.

“Hello, baby.”  Lily said, smiling softly at the sight of her son, holding back her tears and denials of what he was about to do.

“We’re so proud of you, son.”  James told him, wrapping one arm around his wife’s shoulders.  “Never doubt that for a moment.  You’re as much a fighter as we ever were.”

“Does it hurt?”  Harry asked, blinking back his own tears, focusing on Remus’s gentle face.

“Quicker than falling asleep.”  The werewolf assured him.  “Tonks will take care of Teddy, Harry.  I couldn’t be prouder of you if you were my own son.”

“Will you stay with me?”  He asked, hand clenching on the stone.  “Until…”

“All the way to the end, cub.”  Remus smiled, Lily and James echoing his words even as Lily hid her face in James’s shoulder.

And they did, as Harry dropped his wand in the forest – well, Malfoy’s wand – and clenched his hand tight around the stone, not letting go even as green light enveloped him and his eyes closed on last time.

…

Emerald green eyes opened, though not on a dark forest glade or a white train station, but a rolling meadow, flowers dancing in a warm summer breeze.

Looking around, Harry was surprised to find himself on his feet, wearing clothes that fit him better than anything he’d owned in his life, even if it was a simple pair of blue jeans and a white t-shirt, glasses absent from his face but able to see with unrivaled clarity nonetheless.

Rubbing one hand over his forehead, he was shocked to find the ever-present scar gone, and lowering the same hand, no sign of Umbridge’s torment marring his flesh.

Turning in a slow circle, he was creatures of all kinds surrounding him: horses, what he thought were donkeys and mules, hippogryffs, griffons, thestrals, abraxans, pegasi, even dragons.

“Where am I?”  He wondered.

It certainly was like no place he’d ever seen before, even without all the species that rightfully should never graze alongside each other or nap in another’s company.

“An in-between place, little one.”  A soft voice told him, Harry whirling around at its presence.  He stalled only a moment before darting forward and running into an open set of arms.

“Mum.”  He whispered, tears clogging his eyes once more.

“Yes, baby.”  Lily Evans murmured into his messy hair.  “I’m here.”

She held and rocked him as he cried, letting him drain all the poison and pain of his life out, humming under her breath all the while until he quieted at last, then passed him into another set of waiting arms.

“That’s it, son.”  James told him, hugging him tight a moment before passing his precious boy over to the waiting Remus.  “It’s all behind you now.”

“James.”  Remus growled a warning, even as he held Harry tight before letting the young man step back and see them all at once.  “Let him process a _moment_ won’t you before bringing that up?”

Before the old friends could begin squabbling, Lily cleared her throat and arched an auburn brow, the two grown wizards ducking their heads in a picture of sheepishness.

“Now, Harry.”  Lily turned back to her son even as each of them curled around him in a three-way hug, all loath to let go.  “I’m sure you have questions.”

“Well, one at least.”  Harry quirked a half-smile.  “Am I dead?”

“Yes.”  Lily sighed.  “And no.  That I’m afraid is up to you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Voldemort killed you, that’s true.”  Remus told him in his patented “professor” voice.  “However, when you died you weren’t alone in your body, you had a…hitch-hiker for lack of a better term.”

“That means.”  Lily told her confused looking son.  “That you _could_ return if you wished, and Voldemort’s soul-shard will be the only one to perish.  Or…”

“Or…?”  Harry asked, curiosity aroused by the looks exchanged by his loved ones.

“Or.”  James supplied, taking the bull by the horns.  Another spirit given this task likely wouldn’t have presented him with the “or.”  But they loved him above all else and wanted him to make this choice – at least this once – as informed as possible.  “You can go on elsewhere.”  James broke off from the Harry-pile to wave at all the creatures surrounding them.

All means of going _on_.

“You can choose to stay with us, baby.”  Lily told him.  “Choose to rest, and we know better than anyone that you’ve earned it.”

“Or you can return.”  Remus added in turn.  “Go back to the life you left, take back up the fight, and live out a hopefully long life in the wizarding world.”

“Or,” James gave a devil-may-care grin down at his mini-me with Lily’s eyes.  “You can choose a new adventure entirely.  The choice, Harry, is yours.  As your mother said: this is a place in-between.”

Harry looked around at all the creatures, some paying him attention, some taking wing or wandering away.  He was about to give in to going “home” despite how tired he was of the wizarding world and all the pressures and expectations, when something caught his eye.  A speck in the bright azure sky at first, then it came closer and closer, blotting out the sun for a long moment before landing with a raucous cry and scattering the rest of the creatures.

It was a dragon, but not _any_ dragon.

Massive in size, its head alone was big enough to swallow a mammoth whole, with endless black scales and burning red eyes.

James let out a whistle in appreciation.

“Damn, son.”  He said, smirking.  “I’ve never seen that big bastard leave his nest before.  Must be something about you he likes.”

“James.”  Lily slapped his arm as James and Remus snickered at her scolding.  “We’re not supposed to interfere.”

“Guess Balerion there didn’t get the memo.”  Remus snorted.

“Balerion?”  Harry asked, cocking his head even as he moved to stand head to snout with the massive dragon.  It was different than the dragons he’d known in England.  More like a bat in body with powerful hind legs and wings instead of a lizard with wings.

“Balerion the Black Dread.”  Lily explained with a sigh.  “He’s not the only one of his kind here, but he’s the biggest and most powerful.”

“Balerion.”  Harry repeated once more, liking the sound of it before gathering all his courage and resting one hand on that massive snout, Balerion leaning into the petting hand then lowering his head to the ground in expectation.  “Looks like he’s made the decision for me.”  He turned, giving his parents and Remus a bittersweet smile, the trio rushing to shower him in last hugs and kisses.

Harry turned to climb up Balerion’s head, planning to perch between his forehead spikes to hang on to the enormous dragon, then stopped asking one last question before taking his leave.  He knew, now, that he’d see them again, at the end of whatever adventure Balerion was taking him to.  But still…there was something, or rather someone, missing.

“Dad, Mum, where Sirius?”

The others traded glances.

“We don’t know, Harry.”  James told him carefully.  “Remus told us about the Veil, but we’ve never seen him.”

“It could be.”  Remus continued, having given the matter quite a bit of thought in the hours since his own death to find the missing Padfoot wasn’t among the dead.  “That the Veil wasn’t a death device at all.  But perhaps a portal to another place, or an in-between.  All we know is that he’s not here.”

“Ok.”  Harry blew out a breath, then climbed up onto Balerion’s head, positioning himself firmly.  “I’m ready when you are, Balerion.”

With a shrieking roar as Harry’s family faded away, back to their rest, Balerion leapt into the bright blue sky, carrying Harry Potter off to his next great adventure.

 


	2. Jaeherys

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter One: Jaeherys**

Prince Jaeherys Targaryen was born at the end of the seventh moon in the year 274 AC, to King Aerys Targaryen and his sister-wife Queen Rhaella.

His birth was a joyous occasion, as prior to it the royal couple had been plagued by stillbirths, miscarriages, and children dying in infancy, all save their silver-haired heir Rhaegar, who was fifteen years older than his new baby brother.

Baby Prince Jaeherys was of a slightly different coloring than his elder brother’s silver-blond hair with deep purple eyes, having more of a pale-spun golden silver and eyes that changed within weeks to a bold green that rivaled the emeralds in one of his mother’s necklaces.  Were it not for the sheer Valyrian features he bore in every other way, some might have whispered of Rhaella’s fidelity to her brother-husband, but as it was, he was nearly Rhaegar in miniature, despite the eyes which some thought a throw-back to perhaps his great-grandmother who was a Blackwood or the past marriages between Dorne and the Iron Throne.  Still, it was of little matter, as he was a happy baby who brought smiles to all around him, doted upon by his mother and brother alike, and even able to make his king-father laugh as he gurgled and reached for Aerys’s dangling dragon pendant of Valyrian steel set with rubies.

The first six turns of his life passed this way, in simple bliss with his parents and brother.

Then the dreams came, causing much confusion and upset to the young Prince, to the point of the Maester recommending switching him from a wet-nurse to goats-milk, as his upset made them fear sickness or colic had set in, it was so great.

Even the mighty Kingsguard feared, as should aught befall the babe, they anticipated a return of a crueler Aerys than they’d seen in the last six turns since the birth of the healthy and strong Jaeherys.

Little did they know that the issue wasn’t own of diet, but of dreaming.

More to the point, dreaming of another life, and the memories – mostly bad but some good – that came with it.

It took months for the young mind to be able to understand what was happening, but within a few turns Jaeherys’s family and household saw a return of a calm, happy babe if not as joyful as his first turns of life had been.

…

First there was warmth, then pressure and sudden cold.

Those were the first things Harry knew after Balerion had dove through a shining archway that had appeared in the sky.

It was a strange, endless time, one of little understanding as if he was drifting through an endless dreamscape.  When he hungered, he was fed.  When he was cold, he cried and was comforted.  It wasn’t until what seemed a long time passed, a time where his dreamscape grew haunted as he remembered what came before Balerion and the vast azure sky, that he at last understood.

The great dragon had taken him on his next great adventure alright.

He simply hadn’t expected having to start over from the _beginning_ , as a helpless baby barely able to understand his own memories let alone what was happening around him.

Harry was still himself, even if he was called “Jaeherys” now, but it was hard to think and understand what was going on with the undeveloped mind of a baby.  To that end, he stopped fussing over it.  He knew he would grow and be able to figure things out again.  In the meantime, he was loved, that much he knew.

Sleepy after being fed by his mother – a _living_ mother, which strangely didn’t feel like a betrayal to the one he’d left behind – with kind purple eyes and silver-gold hair, Harry let himself nod off, safe and content in her arms.

His mother, Rhaella, sang in a soft crooning voice as she lulled him to sleep, Harry _happy_ for the first time – outside of his visit to the in-between – in longer than he could remember.

…

By the time he was a year old, Harry’s mind had developed enough to make sense of what had happened to him and access his memories and personality beyond being a sleepy-hungry babe.

To his shock and elation that was _also_ about the time that he’d realized he was still _him_ , meaning that while Harry Potter had been reborn in a new world as Jaeherys Targaryen, he still had all his memories – and all his skills – from being Harry Potter in his new body.  A fact that he discovered on fine morning when he managed to Vanish the bars on his crib to crawl onto the floor in an act of accidental magic that had him squealing with joy – before rushing to reverse it before his mother or a servant came to get him now that he’d woken for the day.  Harry knew it would need training up – he didn’t have a wand for one thing – but magic was still magic and he was elated that it had stayed with him.

As time passed, he began to notice more as his vision and senses matured, and his mind caught up with the eighteen-year-old he was in fact instead of the young child he was in age.

For one thing, his parents while loving towards both him and his brother, were merely polite to each other and often his father wasn’t even that.

He’d also figured out that he was a product of incest that would’ve had even the staunchest of pure-bloods shuddering, given the close resemblance between his parents, though Rhaella had a more golden color of blonde hair than her husband Aerys had passed to Harry’s brother Rhaegar.

Ick.

A fact that made him more thankful than he could say that he’d kept his original gender, as otherwise he’d probably would’ve ended up betrothed to Rhaegar, a thought which his British sensibilities couldn’t stand.

He also realized that he was a prince, after hearing the nurse call his parents “Your Grace” and his father summon the “Kingsguard”, one of whom was left in his chambers to watch over him while his parents and brother were elsewhere.

And didn’t that just figure?

He escaped a life in the spotlight, as figurative royalty, only to end up as _actual_ royalty.

At least he was the spare and not the heir.

Rhaegar could have that spot, with Harry’s much-thankful blessings.

Harry slept, and fed, and learned, picking up the two languages spoken all around him, one that was at least a bit similar to English called the “common tongue” spoken by and to the servants and Kingsguard, and the Valyrian tongue which was much more lyrical that was spoken strictly by his family, and most often by his mother and brother when they were either reading to him or singing.

It was a good life, a happy life, still he couldn’t deny even as his mother started to gain a roundness to her belly after his first “nameday” celebration that he was holding his breath a bit in anxiety.

His last life had fallen to pieces when he was sixteen months – or turns as his new world called them – would this one do the same?

In the end the answer was yes…and no.

…

A teary-eyed Rhaegar stood shoulder to shoulder with his best-friend and member of the Kingsguard Ser Arthur Dayne as they watched young Prince Jaeherys toddle all around his nursery room.  His mother would be with him, but the Maester feared for her after she fainted at the news.  With Rhaella pregnant once more, and her history, he wasn’t taking any chances with her health.

He never would.

His heart had taken enough of a beating this day, adding losing his newest sibling – or worse, his mother – to it would be too much for his sixteen-year-old shoulders to bear.

Jaeherys was a happy toddler, and smarter than any young child Rhaegar or the Kingsguard had ever seen, himself included.  His favorite game seemed to be either trying to catch the dragons on the mobile over his head, or toddling around his nursery repeating what words he could form, which were a mixture of a half-dozen thus far in both Common and High Valyrian.

Rhaegar, when not bent over a book or his harp, or practicing at swords with the other squires, was often found in the nursery with him, repeating the words of things for him in the two languages or reading in either.

He _adored_ little Jaeherys, and now he had to find a way to tell him their father was dead.

Thankfully, he didn’t have to try and explain it further than that.  A sixteen turn babe had no need of details, such as that it was Aerys’s own mistress that had poisoned him, and upon her own confession admitted that it was only once her poisoning of Jaeherys himself had somehow failed.  How such a thing was possible, Rhaegar didn’t know, but if he had to choose…well.

That was a once-treasonous thought better kept to himself.

Aerys wasn’t a good man, Rhaegar was old enough to know, and an even worse king.

But he had been his father, and for that Rhaegar would keep thoughts of preferring Aerys’s death to Jaeherys or gods-forbid Rhaella’s to himself.

“How do I tell him, Arthur?”  Rhaegar murmured as little Jaeherys toddled over to his carved dragon toy – one of his favorites – and cried “B’arion!”  Jaeherys couldn’t quite manage the syllables of Belarion yet, but the tales of the Black Dread were among his favorites, along with that of Aegon the Conqueror and the stories of Old Valyria and the time of the First Men of Westeros.  “How do I explain to a toddler that his father is dead?”

“Jaeherys is a smart little mite, Rhaegar.”  Arthur told him, wrapping an arm around his friend in wordless comfort.  “Just do the best you can.  That’s all we can ask at this point, Your Grace.”

Rhaegar held in a grimace at that.

It wasn’t official yet and wouldn’t be until he had his coronation after his father’s cremation, but that was the other thing.

The King was dead, long live the King.

…

Harry understood better than they thought and stayed quiet all through Aerys’s cremation, as well as the interment of his ashes beneath the Sept of Baelor.  Being so young, he was kept away from the trial for Aerys’s mistress, who was executed, and her family sent away from King’s Landing in disgrace, though Rhaegar took no action against them otherwise.  More time than ever was spent cuddling with his mother, as Rhaella had been put on bedrest following her fainting spell at the news of her brother-husband’s murder, though they saw less of Rhaegar and what little they did see of the young King showed the stress and strain of trying to get the Seven Kingdoms in order.

Rhaegar’s Small Council ended up being a mixture of his trusted advisors and that of his father’s, most significantly he kept on both Lucerys Velaryon as Master of Ships, Steffon Baratheon their cousin once-removed as Master of Laws, and Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King.  Joining them was the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Gerold Hightower, as well as Ser Arthur Dayne of the Kingsguard as an advisor not appointed to one of the historical Small Council positions but trusted above all men by the king nonetheless.  Lord Ardwell Celtigar was made Master of Coin, while Oberyn Martell, a scandalous choice that pleased Dorne, was taken on as Master of Whispers.  One last change was both of housecleaning and the Small Council.  Grand Maester Pycelle was a known whoremonger, who Rhaegar couldn’t stand the thought of laying hands on his beloved mother, barely waiting until he was informed by Oberyn that Pycelle had one of his numerous whores in his chambers before having him arrested by the Kingsguard and eventually scourged out of the city with naught but the robes on his back and his Maester’s chain.

When the Citadel sent an envoy to apologize profusely for the embarrassment to their order and the royal household, Rhaegar accepted the apology but refused the envoy as Grand Maester, sending him back to the Citadel with news that he had already sent for his choice.

His great-uncle Aemon Targaryen, who had been stationed as the Maester to the Night’s Watch for longer than Rhaegar had been alive, was the King’s choice for Grand Maester and a seat upon the Small Council.

His Uncle-Maester chided him for it when he arrived in the Red Keep, even as he swept Rhaegar into a hug with a strength that belied his age.

Nonetheless, Rhaegar was the king and he was obeyed, the Citadel sending another to the Wall to serve as Aemon’s replacement.

In the midst of all of this, nobles flocked to the city, their daughters or cousins or nieces in tow, all to try and turn the eyes of the Silver King to them as an option for a bride.

A fool’s venture.

Rhaegar already had an heir in Jaeherys, and another potentially on the way with his mother’s pregnancy.

Moreover, at sixteen he may be a man grown, but he was in no way ready to say vows of marriage when he’d barely taken those of knighthood.

A wife could wait.

Dealing with the disaster of his father’s reign could not.

…

Two-year-old Harry peeked over the edge of the cradle at his mother’s side, Rhaegar just behind him, staring at the sight of his newborn baby brother Viserys.

“Baby so small.”  Harry managed to wrap his tongue around the makeshift sentence, green eyes wide.

The first time he’d seen his reflection in his bathwater had thrown him for several minutes.  He still had his eye color, but his hair was almost the same pale-gold shade as his mother’s, a few shades more golden than Rhaegar’s silver.  And as he grew, it became more and more apparent that he would look almost identical to his handsome older brother, if maybe a bit finer-boned.

Viserys was much the same, he could tell under the baby-roundness, with tufts of thick hair between the pale-gold of Harry and the silver of Rhaegar.

His eyes – when they were open – were the milky-blue of most babies, but were sure to turn towards Valyrian purple or indigo in a few weeks.

“Yes, Viserys is very small.”  Rhaegar told him with a smile.  “But he’s still bigger than you were when you were born, Jaeherys.”

“Harry not small.”  Harry turned in Rhaegar’s hands and frowned up at his big brother.  Rhaegar was a large man, tall and strong.  It gave Harry hope that in this life he wouldn’t be the runt of the litter like he was in his last…thought that had more to do with lack of proper food and care than it did genetics.  “Rhaegar too big.”

The laughter of their audience drew the attention of the brothers, the tinkling-bell laughter of their mother joined by a guffaw from Prince Lewen and a chuckle from Ser Barristan, the latter watching over the Dowager Queen and newest heir to the throne while Lewen was in charge of keeping up with Jaeherys for the day, Rhaegar’s guards of Ser Gerold and Ser Arthur waiting in the hall so as not to crowd the Queen.

“He’s got you there, lad.”  Barristan told him with a chuckle.

“Very good, Jaeherys.”  Rhaella told him, holding out her arms for her whip-smart toddler.  “You tell Rhaegar who’s boss.”

Rhaegar rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“Announcements have gone out all over the Kingdom.”  He told his mother, even as he stroked a gentle hand over the sleeping Viserys’s downy head.  “Lord Tywin is making noises about a Tourney in Lannisport in Viserys’s honor.”

Rhaella gave a sigh.  That man.  When would he learn?

“He’s been pushing for a match between you and that daughter of his.”  She said knowingly, well-informed even if she had been trapped in her bed for the last few turns as she awaited Viserys’s arrival.  “This is likely his newest ploy.  Well.”  She tsked, tickling Jaeherys when he shifted, speaking around his giggles.  “We’ll let him flaunt his wealth and spend his gold in your brother’s honor.  And politely decline the match.  Your father is gone.”  Rhaella looked between her three boys with loving – but knowing – eyes.  “There’s no reason you can’t marry as your heart demands, so long as it doesn’t demand _too_ unwisely.  Wed in your own time, my loves.  And not in haste or to please a too-proud lord like Tywin Lannister.”

“Yes, mother.”

“Yes, mama.”  Jaeherys echoed his brother, to much fawning.  Little did they know, he actually understood his mother’s words and took heed of her advice.

“And Rhaegar?”

“Yes, mother?”

“Take Jaeherys with you to Lannisport.”  Rhaella smiled at her boys.  “It’ll take some time for Tywin to set his plans in motion and the other houses to arrive.  Meeting others his age will be good for Jaeherys.”

…

_Lannisport, Fifth-Turn, 277 AC_

Rhaella’s words turned out to be prophetic.

Tywin’s tourney in honor of Prince Viserys’s birth and to welcome King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, to the Westerlands ended up taking several turns to plan, and more to travel from the far reaches of Westeros to attend, as a result Harry was only two months from his third nameday when he and Rhaegar arrived with their attendants and the bulk of the Kingsguard (save Harlan Grandison and Jonothor Darry who had remained in King’s Landing to guard their mother and brother) at Casterly Rock.

Harry found the trip and the tourney fascinating, traveling down the Gold Road and stopping at many of their Lords’ holdings along the way.  As a result, he was better behaved than any almost-three-year-old should be during the journey, a fact which he took blatant advantage of anytime they tried to shut him away in the cart with his nurse instead of letting him ride in front of Rhaegar or the Kingsguard.  It was Harry’s first holiday – ever.  Over his dead body was he going to spend most of it tucked away in a cart.

Casterly Rock was as magnificent as Uncle-Maester Aemon had promised it would be, and Harry bounded around the castle and tourney grounds, getting into everything he could with one of the Kingsguard chasing after him as Rhaegar and many of the other lords and knights laughed at the sight.

Shields and sigils, flags and banners filled the tourney fields, Rhaegar and Ser Arthur or Ser Barristan taking turns pointing each out and naming the House for him, testing him as they went and teaching him the many houses Great and otherwise of Westeros that had arrived for the tourney, both for the chance to win glory and to feast on the bounty provided by Tywin at banquet, or to present yet another parade of daughters-nieces-cousins-sisters to the King on the chance one might catch his eye.

Harry snorted at the thought as he stopped to pet Ser Arthur’s charger, brought along as Ser Arthur, Ser Barristan, and Ser Oswell all planned to partake in the tourney while Prince Lewen rolled his eyes at their showing off.

Rhaegar, he knew, wanted to participate, but his days of riding at the joust had ended with their father’s reign.

Not that it stopped him from earning his knighthood or practicing at swords, but a tourney was far too dangerous a pastime for a King.

The days of the tourney passed in a parade of hopeful maidens and thundering hooves, blood, crushing blows, and the scent of sweat heavy in the Westerland air.

Harry and Rhaegar oversaw it all, each event and competition, each turn at the lists, with Tywin seated beside Rhaegar and his twin twelve-year-old son and daughter beside Harry.  As a matter of course, Rhaegar and Harry wore tunics of black with the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen picked out either in small rubies or red silk thread, black leather leggings underneath, and black boots, though Rhaegar’s had rubies at the back of his calves holding the fold in place.  The archery contest was swept by a man from the Summer Isles with his goldenwood bow, while Ser Arthur was once again named the champion of the Sword.  Come the last day only two events remained: the finale of the joust, and the melee.

There were three rounds of jousts on the final day, two to whittle down the last four remaining knights to a pair, and the last to crown the champion.

Rhaegar and Harry were both beyond pleased that once again the Kingsguard had made a fine showing, Ser Oswell only falling to Ser Barristan the day before, with both Ser Barristan and Ser Arthur progressing to the semi-final bouts.  They were joined by Ser Gerion Lannister, Lord Tywin’s younger brother, and Ser Rolland Storm, the bastard son of the current Lord of House Caron.  With the glut of westerland knights, it was no surprise to see one make the finals, though Ser Rolland’s showing had been impressive, as he’d also placed in archery and swordsmanship.

If Harry knew anything about his brother, and after three years he thought he did, Rhaegar likely had his eye on bachelor Ser Rolland for the spot on the Kingsguard that was sure to open once elderly Ser Harlan passed of old age, or a spot in their household guard if nothing else, as both would be an honor both to the knight in question as well as his birth father.

“Who do you favor, my prince?”  Tywin unbent enough to ask.  He’d sought and had a private audience with King Rhaegar the day after their arrival.  To his dismay, Rhaegar had refused to speak of betrothals, though he was polite and kind regarding the matter.  Even Tywin had a hard time disagreeing that there was much work to be done in Westeros, and that with two heirs already, Rhaegar could well afford to wait for marriage – at least for a time.

Harry smiled brightly at the Lion of the Rock, and cried “The Sword of Morning!” A cry quickly taken up by the smallfolk and nobles alike, Ser Arthur Dayne the Sword of Morning acknowledge his and their favor with a tip of his lance as he awaited the signal from upon his black destrier, his opponent Tywin’s brother Gerion.  A knight of renown, Ser Arthur was as much respected by the smallfolk as Rhaegar was beloved, the public appearance of Jaeherys doing much to worm him into their hearts and mind as well as a bright, happy boy to foil the King’s melancholy nature.

Rhaegar gave a nod, and the page lowered the flag, the roar of the crowd barely audible over the thunder of hooves and the snorts of the horses as Gerion and Arthur charged.

Harry it seemed had a knack for picking a winner, for upon the second tilt between the two knights, Ser Arthur unseated Gerion so hard it appeared he’d been struck senseless.

As Ser Arthur was declared the winner, the banners were swapped out for that of House Selmy and the sigil of Ser Rolland: the golden shield with black nightingales of Nightsong crossed with a black bar-sinister as the mark of a bastard son.  Arthur retreated to his tent to rest, and Harry shifted in his seat before clambering over to sit on the arm of Rhaegar’s chair, his brother laughing aloud at his antics even as Lord Tywin gave him a disapproving sideways glance.  It was childish, Harry knew, but to everyone around him he _was_ a child, moreover he’d never gotten to _be_ a child of this age in his first life and he was damned and determined to enjoy it.

“Careful there, Jaeherys.”  Rhaegar warned him, wrapping one arm around him to keep him steady.  “Don’t want you to take a tumble now.”

“Little terror.”  Prince Lewen snorted from behind the royal brothers.  “If he _doesn’t_ manage to take a tumble before the day’s out, I’ll owe Oswell a dragon.”

“Dragon?”  Harry perked up, playing up – or rather down – to his age.  “Where is dragon?”

“Gold dragons, young prince.”  Tywin explained with a patience he used only with his own son and the royal children – especially the one that was now his liege lord and king.  “Here.”  Tywin reached into his purse and handed over one of the coins in questions.  “One of the newly minted dragons in honor of your brother the King.”

“Dragon.”  Harry repeated himself once more, staring at the image of the three-headed dragon on one side and the profile of his brother on the other, making out the script one either side.  “Gold dragon.”  He showed Rhaegar.

“He’s very smart.”  Jaime commented from next to Prince Jaehery’s now-empty seat.  “Like my brother, Tyrion.”

Were Jaime a meeker – or brighter – boy, the _look_ he got from his father for that tidbit would have scorched him on the spot.

“Comes from too much time around adults, I’d wager.”  Rhaegar sighed.  “Mother made mentions of finding him companions, the way I had Ser Arthur and a few others our age at court.  Now that Jaeherys is old enough, we’ll have to start reviewing who might suit, Tywin.”  He left it at that, though he had every intention of following up on Jaime’s words.

He knew – everyone did – that young Tyrion was ill-liked by Lord Tywin, and rumored to be a dwarf.  If such was the case, perhaps he’d allow him to become one of Jaeherys’s companions.  Rhaegar had a few others in mind, but that was a concern for later.

For the moment, he had to start the next tilt, and watch as Ser Barristan the Bold unseated another up-and-comer on the lists.

…

In the end, Ser Barristan fell to his brother-in-arms Ser Arthur, making the Sword of Morning once more the champion of a tourney, though the two tended to trade the title between them.

Ser Arthur, who as a Kingsguard could take no wife nor father children, crowned his younger sister Ashara his Queen of Love of Beauty, as was his wont.  A beauty and the perfect mix of dusky Dornish looks with the purple eyes and fine-bones of Old Valyria, she was one of the most sought-after maidens in the land at fourteen-years of age and a woman flowered, but her elder brothers both Ser Arthur and the Lord of their House Ser Aldus promised their sisters Ashara and the youngest Allyria that they would be free to choose their husbands when and where they will.  And as of yet, none had caught her eye, and rumor had it that until a knight or lord who could best her brother Ser Arthur made himself known, either with sword or at the tilt, she would remain a maiden true.

To no one’s surprise, Thoros of Myr, a Red Priest who spent most of his time drinking rather than in the service of his god, arose as the champion of the melee.

Thoros might not be able to hold a lance to save his life, but his trick of setting his sword aflame was ever the crowd-pleaser, and had entertained young Prince Jaeherys in particular.

Rhaegar found Tywin sitting alone at the head table, watching over the celebratory feast, and took his seat beside his host, having danced with several of the ladies present after seeing Jaeherys off with Ser Barristan for the night, Jaeherys fighting sleep every step of the way.

“Your grace.”  Tywin nodded to the young king.  The Lion of the Rock found that it chafed him less to refer to Rhaegar as such despite his age than it had Aerys, as other than wanting to delay talks of marriage, the silver-haired King had never done a thing wrong in Tywin’s critical eyes, other than be born of an incautious, arrogant, idiot.  “I hope you have enjoyed your welcome in the Westerlands.”

“I would say that my enjoyment pales in comparison to Jaeherys’s.”  Rhaegar said with a self-deprecating smile.  “I already fear for his future spouse, whoever the unlucky soul might be.”

“Many boys outgrow their wildness in time.”  Tywin told him.  “Age and the disciple of kinghood tends to help curb the worst of it and a few battles the rest.  He’s young, he’ll settle.”

“Yes, he is.”  Rhaegar nodded, agreeing with at least that much.  “And he needs companions.  Tywin.”  Rhaegar pinned the Lord of the Westerlands with his firm purple gaze.  “I’d like to take your son Tyrion back with us, to serve as a companion and friend for Jaeherys.  If what Jaime has said is true, they should be well-suited.”

Tywin was taken aback.

Aerys had never in all their early years of friendship nor their latter years of tense stalemate offered an honor that suited him so ill.  Tyrion was his bane, and he’d be glad to be rid of him, which this was the most honorable way to do so.  Still, he hated the very sight of the boy, that he breathed while his beloved Joanna did not, and was loathe to agree as being companion to a prince was an opportunity afforded few noble sons.

However, Tywin _was_ the Hand of the King, and as such there was only _one_ answer he could give his grace.

“If that is your wish, your grace.”  Tywin nodded slowly, green eyes shuttered.  “I will send orders to Tyrion’s nursemaid to pack his things and have him prepared to join the royal train.”

“Thank you, Tywin.”  Rhaegar smiled at his Hand.  “Your service to the throne is appreciated as ever and an honor to Westeros.”

“The honor is mine, your grace.”

…

Tyrion was only the first of the companions that Rhaegar gathered in the Red Keep for his brother to learn and grow and fight alongside.  As heir to the Iron Throne, Jaeherys couldn’t be fostered and make friends with his fellow fosterlings like a normal noble boy.  To Rhaegar, that simply meant he had to bring them to him, fostering sons of various noble houses with the promise of serving first as pages and then as squires to either the king or the knights of renown among the Kingsguard.

A move he didn’t make without first discussing it _with_ said Kingsguard, as he saw them first more as friends than he did human shields, and while Lewen and Harlan both grumbled a bit about “babysitting lordlings” all agreed to his plan for the good of Jaeherys and eventually Viserys if nothing else.

Plan in place, and with the help of his mother and Lord Tywin, Rhaegar sent invitations to various young boys of an age with Jaeherys to come and serve at court, none of which had families that refused the honor.  Among them were the youngest Stark son of Winterfell, Ser Arthur’s young cousin Gerold Dayne, and the Heirs of Houses Tyrell, Dondarrion, Tully, Tarth, Velaryon, and Celtigar, a good mix of kingdoms and lands and houses represented along with young Tyrion.

Jaeherys was understandably excited.

Though never more than when they’d all been gathered to be introduced and he heard an all-too-familiar, _barking_ laugh.


	3. Benjen

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Two: Benjen**

_277 AC, the Red Keep_

Jaeherys Targaryen, all three-years-old of him, came to an abrupt stop.

Harry knew his brother and mother had been working on getting him some friends, boys his age – or close – who would serve as pages for Rhaegar and the Kingsguard and eventually would be squires and knights with him.  They would take lessons with him and Uncle-Maester Aemon, the same as Tyrion did, and would join him in learning the basics of warcraft and martial skills from the Kingsguard and Ser Willem Darry, their Master at Arms.  What Harry didn’t expect was the boy, who looked a couple years older, maybe five or six years old, with jet black hair and grey eyes, complete with a barking laugh.

He was a Stark, Harry knew that at once from meeting Lord Rickard and Ser Brandon at the Lannisport tourney, one of the families like the Targaryens, Baratheons, and Lannisters that had dominant traits that tended to carry on for generation after generation, the Starks being black of hair and grey or blue of eyes.

Benjen Stark, the youngest son of Lord Rickard and his lady-wife Lyarra, if he remembered his Uncle-Maester’s lessons correctly.

He was also a dead-ringer for a young Sirius Black, from the top of his head to his laugh to his smiling eyes.

Between Sirius being absent from the in-between and Harry’s own rebirth, he was starting to see the lines of fate intertwine, though for what purpose both of them – even if Sirius hadn’t retained his memories as Harry had – he couldn’t divine.  Regardless, the sight of young Benjen Stark both soothed Harry’s lingering grief over Sirius and exacerbated it.  If this _was_ Sirius reborn, then Harry was happier than ever that Rhaegar and his mother had insisted he needed friends his own age.

And even if it wasn’t there was enough of a resemblance between the looks and the laugh that Harry wanted to know him anyway.

“Presenting her Grace, Dowager Queen Rhaella Targaryen.”  Rhaegar’s majordomo called out when Harry entered the room at his mother’s tug, Rhaella walking at his side and ushering him along.  “Escorted by Prince Jaeherys Targaryen, Heir of the Iron Throne.”

It was a formal occasion after all, the presentation of Jaeherys to his chosen companions and them to him, along with their parents and the chosen servants or men-at-arms that would stay with the noble sons in the Red Keep.  Harry, after years both watching the pureblooded posturing of Hogwarts and the Targaryen Court, could have laughed at the lack of subtlety most of those gathered possess, Lord Tywin’s calm stoicism a telling trait of a man much more accustomed to the palace than his contemporaries, even those who were of equal standing such as the other Wardens.

Tywin Lannister presented both of his sons – though he wasn’t happy about it – to the Queen and Jaeherys, despite Harry having met Jaime before.  The Heir of the Rock had come to King’s Landing as a placation to Tywin over Rhaegar declining Cersei – _again_ – and choosing his least-favored child to be a companion to his brother.  Jaime would be the first squire to Ser Barristan Selmy, as Rhaegar knew Jaime would be knighted and likely married before Jaeherys was ready to squire for one of the most renowned knights to wear the White Cloak.  Tywin hoped that the more serious nature of Barristan and being exposed to the teachings of Aemon Targaryen and the Court would help turn Jaime’s mind from simple swordplay and knighthood to the duties of lordship.

A fool’s hope, he would learn in the end, but a hope nonetheless.

Jaeherys smiled his happiest smile at both Lannisters, Jaime breaking protocol and ruffling the youngling’s hair, his own split-attitude over his fostering abated for the moment in the face of the beautiful Queen – possibly the loveliest woman he’d seen in his life – and happy Jaeherys.  Cersei had thrown the fit-of-fits over everyone _but_ her going to stay at the capitol, wheedling her father to get her a place in the Queen’s train but failing at every turn.  In the end she’d frustrated Tywin so that he’d threatened her with a betrothal to one of the Martells or the Starks to silence her.  Jaime wasn’t best pleased to be away from his sister, but it was a change he’d known was coming with his fostering and squiring for a knight chosen by his father.  His excitement over getting the honor of fostering for one of the Kingsguard, let alone _the_ Barristan the Bold, hadn’t helped with Cersei’s sulking to say the least.

Next came silly Mace Tyrell, the Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the Reach, with his son Willas who was a moon older than Harry, and a quiet, shy boy from what Rhaegar had reported to Rhaella – with Harry eavesdropping whilst pretending to sleep – who loved horses, hawks, and dogs.  Garlan, Willas’s younger brother was already tipped as a possible companion in a few years for Viserys, as was their newborn cousin Renly, and little Garth Hightower.

After Willas was Edmure Tully with his father Hoster, accompanied by his younger sister Lysa whom all knew Hoster was shopping for a match with either Rhaegar or Jaime Lannister.  A bit of wishful thinking on both parts, as Lysa while attractive hadn’t her older sister Catelyn’s beauty, Hoster among those reluctant to set betrothals for his remaining unmatched children until Rhaegar selected a spouse.  And kicking themselves over what matches had already been made, such as Catelyn’s long-standing betrothal to Brandon Stark, the heir of Winterfell.  Edmure was a year older than Jaeherys, the same age as Tyrion, and as active as Willas was quiet.

Finally after Edmure was the boy Harry wanted most to meet: Benjen Stark.

Lord Rickard had brought Benjen and his nine-year-old sister Lyanna, a pretty girl with all the promise of growing into the beauty brought about by wedding Southron roses such as her grandmother who was a Whent, with Northern coloring.  Fair of skin, black of hair, and with quicksilver eyes that were utterly bored at the pomp and circumstance, Lyanna reminded Harry very much of a spitfire Ginny trying to talk her way onto the Hogwarts Express, complete with laughing eyes.  Eyes that she shared with her brothers Benjen and Brandon.

Benjen was the second-oldest of Rhaegar’s chosen companions for his brother Jaeherys, along with the son of one of House Targaryen’s staunchest supporters: Cristan Celtigar, the Heir of Claw Island, who beat him out for the eldest spot by three moon-turns.

By far the youngest was the toddler Beric Dondarrion, still hiding in his mother’s arms when he was presented.  Little Beric was only a bit over a year old, and wouldn’t be joining them at the Red Keep for another two years, much like the other young member of the group Galladon Tarth.  Galladon was the Heir of House Tarth, and at two years old had another year to wait before coming to join the prince and his companions at the Red Keep.

Rounding out the companions were three-year-old Monford Velaryon, another Targaryen loyalist Heir, and Gerold Dayne, the four-year-old cousin of Ser Arthur and the heir of High Hermitage, who was chosen to honor the long-standing friendship between Ser Arthur and Rhaegar, with Arthur’s brother Aldus as yet childless despite having been searching for a bride for several years.

Picky, was the concenus regarding House Dayne of Starfall, between the un-betrothed Ashara and Allyria and the bachelors Aldus and Arthur, though at least Arthur’s vow precluded him from taking a spouse and providing heirs for Starfall.

Given that the Kingsguard were often fathers, uncles, brothers, and friends to the royal family, Harry found the description hard to argue with, what with Arthur’s lamenting of his brother and younger sisters that led to teasing from Rhaegar and Lewyn over his choosing a white cloak over trying to find a bride himself.

…

Harry waited impatiently for more than a week for the families of his new companions to take their leave.

But of course, feasts were to be had with several Wardens under the Red Keep’s roof, and Court and Council, and so on, while the new boys were “settled” into their new chambers, each granted according to the prestige of their house and the honor of being chosen as one of Harry’s companions and friends.  Little Galladon and littler Beric returned with their families to their homes, while the others save for Lord Tywin and the Lord fathers of Cristan and Monford who also served on the Small Council, departed for their various holdings.  Rhaella and her ladies made certain that each of the young boys were made welcome, and if they took comfort in the warm hugs handed out freely by the Queen and her train when homesickness struck, no mention was made of it in ravens home.

He waited, as until the others were settled and their siblings no longer cluttering up their quarters, there was no point in sneaking around the Red Keep and pouncing on Benjen to discover if he _really_ was Sirius or if Harry’s mind was simply playing tricks on him because of the marked resemblance in looks, laughter, and manner from what Remus had told him of what Sirius had been like before Azkaban.

Benjen Stark was as full of laughter and mischief as any young boy, and while Rickard Stark his lord father was known to be ambitious, as most great lords were, obviously didn’t lack for a loving household if the gentle teasing affection his sister Lyanna and brother Brandon lavished on the youngest Stark was any sign.  Only missing was the middle brother, the “quiet wolf” Eddard “Ned” Stark who was busy fostering in the Eyrie under Jon Arryn, a distant relation of the Stark children’s mother, alongside boorish, loud Robert Baratheon.  Harry didn’t think much of his oldest Baratheon cousin, a sentiment it was clear Rhaegar shared, but liked his parents Steffon and Cassana quite a lot, Cassana a frequent visitor before she quickened with little Renly to the Red Keep to visit her husband’s first-cousin Rhaella.

Cassana’s good-father might not have had anything good to say about his Targaryen good-family after his sister’s promised husband gave up his heirship to the Iron Throne to wed a common-born girl, a deep shame for a great house that led to a rebellion that only ended after her good-father’s father the then-Lord Lyonel was defeated in single combat and Rhaella’s aunt Rhaelle was promised to her good-father in recompense for the slight; but Cassana found Rhaella good company indeed, especially now that she was Aerys’s widow rather than his wife.

For his part, Robert didn’t care for his “pretty princeling” cousins either, so all concerned were contented at his fostering at the Eyrie, especially with the promise of Renly’s fostering at the Red Keep in time to be a companion for Viserys.

Robert’s dislike was hardly helped when his demands of a betrothal to his closest friend’s sister Lyanna were refused by Rickard Stark, the Heir of Storm’s End quick enough of wits to know – as pretty much _everyone_ knew – that Lyanna was one of the noble daughters who would remain unmatched until Rhaegar chose a bride…just in case she might catch his eye.

She was in good company at least, alongside Cersei Lannister, Lysa Tully, multiple nieces of Jon Arryn, Elia Martell, and others too numerous to name, though that scarcely helped soothe the disgruntled young men who found themselves second-best in comparison to a silver-haired King among which Robert found himself sharing the dubious honor of bachelorhood with Jaime Lannister, his brother Stannis, his friend Ned, Aldus Dayne, and the striplings Edmure Tully and Willas Tyrell.

Rhaella had set up a betting pool amongst her ladies – in secret of course as gambling wasn’t considered a “woman’s” pastime – regarding the surge of quick betrothals and quicker marriages that were sure to arise in the wake of Rhaegar finally choosing a bride, as well as how many sword-point weddings would happen in the meantime when young summer lovers decided to… _anticipate_ the issue to a former-maiden’s father’s rage.

Finding and sneaking through hidden passageways was old news to Harry, a skill he’d learned in his last life that was serving him in good stead in his new one.  The Red Keep was riddled with passages, Harry taking care to learn each and every one in time.  Many he was certain he wouldn’t have been able to find without exercising his magic, as the triggers were often far above his head.

Not that he let that stop him.

Magic was the first thing he’d had of his own that his former guardians couldn’t take away from him, no matter how hard they’d tried.

Having to train and discipline himself to use it wandless was a task he took on gladly during the nights and his “nap” times, as while his body still needed more sleep than he was used to, his mind didn’t, falling into a sort of half-meditation and half-occlumency practice that allowed him to work on his internal magic when his body demanded rest, and his wandless magic improved greatly in both consistency and ease of use as a result.

The magic of Westeros was wilder than anything Harry had felt before in his life, perhaps only second to standing in the Room of Hidden Things and flying through a maelstrom of _Fiendfyre_ , and took a corresponding degree of will and practice to master.

Harry had the time to practice while his young body slept, and more than enough will – as anyone who’d ever met him in _either_ life could attest to – to manage it.

With that in hand, even if some of the harder strains such as Transfiguration and advanced charmwork were slow going, and a reasonable memorization of both the Kingsguard routine checks – which were more like personal habits of each guard as there was no set pattern or routine as a safety measure – and the set-routines of the servants, Harry knew exactly when he would visit Benjen and the path to take there that would have the least chance of discovery.

_If only the Starks would hurry up and leave!_

…

Benjen Stark was sleeping the deep sleep of a happy child, untroubled by worries, when a single phrase awoke him in a language he hadn’t heard outside of his dreams since he was born in Winterfell to Rickard and Lyarra Stark five years before:

_“I solemnly swear, I am up to no good.”_

Jerking awake with a gasp, Benjen levered himself upright, heart pounding and stared into emerald green eyes watching him in the low light of the banked fireplace as their owner crouched at the foot of his new bed in the Red Keep.

“ _Hello, Padfoot.”_   Prince Jaeherys Targaryen said with a bright, mischievous smile.

A smile that was almost out of place on the Targaryen face surrounded by pale-gold hair if it wasn’t for one thing: those damn eyes.

 _“Harry?”_   Benjen stuttered, his tongue tripping around the English words after years of learning common Westerosi and High Valyrian, though the latter he still only barely read.

“Hello, Padfoot.”  Harry whispered again, tears beginning to fill his eyes.  “It’s been a long time.”

Benjen barked the laugh that was as much a trademark of his first life as Harry’s eyes were of his.

“You’re telling me, pup.”

He barely had a split-second to brace himself before his arms were filled with all three-years and thirty pounds of crying Jaeherys Targaryen, once known as his godson – Sirius Black’s godson – Harry Potter.

Long moment passed, as both young – now – boys cried.  In relief, in joy, in grief for all they lost, all of it jumbled together in a maelstrom of tears and hiccupping laughs and wrenching sobs, both small forms rocking back and forth as they held each other, bits and pieces of Harry’s life after the Veil tripping out in drips and drabs, bringing Benjen up to date.

Then it was his turn, though by then they’d at least settled down, Harry snuggled beneath the bedfurs with his new-old friend to hear the tale.

…

Little did the pair know that Jaeherys’s empty bed had been discovered by a weary – but thoughtful – Rhaegar, who decided to first look in on the young companions before raising an alarm.

A wise choice, as he peeked in and saw the pair whispering to each other before leaving them to their secrets.

Jaeherys’s scolding could wait for the morn, for the moment, Rhaegar let the night shift of the Kingsguard patrolling the royal corridor – Ser Gwayne Gaunt this night – of the young prince’s whereabouts before dismissing his personal guard Ser Oswell to the White Sword Tower to seek his own rest.

…

“The first thing I remember is waking up in the destroyed Potter Manor.”  Benjen began after tucking Harry in next to him, unable to stop himself from fussing at the tiny form of Prongslet even when mentally he knew that said mini-Marauder was really twenty-one or something by now.  He _looked_ like a mini-Marauder from memory, new face and hair aside, and that was enough for his latent fusspot instincts.  “I hadn’t been there since about a month before it was destroyed taking Aunt Dorea – your grandmother, pup – and Charlus with it.”

Harry blinked at that.  He knew – in an abstract way – that he’d been related to Siri.  Hearing him talk about Potter Manor and “Aunt” Dorea was something else entirely, as before he’d mainly talked about Hogwarts, James, and Remus with a sprinkling of Lily.

“Then it came together.”  Benjen sighed, one hand automatically coming up to stroke over Harry’s baby-soft hair.  “I remembered Bellatrix, her nailing me with a Stunner, and falling back.  Things were clear for the first time in, gods, _years_.”  He grimaced thinking about just how fucked up his thought processes had been after Azkaban. 

At the time he’d thought that he’d managed well with staying as Padfoot and all.  It was only with the clarity death, and the leaving behind of his mortal form – and the scars of all kinds that went with it – that he realized that he’d been damaged to the point of not _knowing_ what was wrong or missing.

“You knew you were dead.”  Harry said with a knowing tone of his own.

Been there, after all.

“Yeah, pup.”  Benjen nodded.  “I did.  Though as I came to find out, it wasn’t as cut and dried as all that.”

“Who came to see you?”

“I was in Potter Manor for a reason, Harry.  It was what I associated with peace and home.”  Benjen explained.  “I saw Aunt Dorea and Uncle Charlus again, and Reg, though I didn’t get why until he explained about his change of heart…but I guess you already know about that.”  He waited for Harry’s confirming nod then continued, glad he didn’t have to go back over _that_ bit.  “They told me the bad news: I was dead but not.  The Veil didn’t kill me but I didn’t have a way back either, that wasn’t its purpose though they never _did_ explain what the poxy thing was for.”  Benjen puffed out his cheeks in exasperation at secret-keeping ghosts-spirit-things.  “So unlike you I only had two choices instead of three.”

“Stay or go on.”  Harry knew well what that was like.  “Mum, Dad, and Moony gave me the same, but with the go-back one too.”

“I’m glad you got to see them.”  Benjen told him sincerely, even if his heart twinged a bit over Jamie and Lilyflower not coming to be his guides.  But he guessed whoever was in charge of those kinds of assignments knew what they were doing.  If he _had_ seen them, he probably never wouldn’t gone on…and then Harry would be here facing Westeros as a Prince all alone.  “It always killed me inside that you didn’t have any good memories of them.”

“It was good.”  Harry agreed easily now that a few years had passed since the meadow.  “Peaceful, and final in a way.  Like, I don’t feel bad over loving Rhaella because I know Lily would want it that way.”

It was a damn good thing Rhaegar hadn’t stayed to listen in on their conversation as topic aside, each of their adult vocabularies, grammar, and sentence structure would have blown their joint secret to smithereens.

“They led me out to where the Potter Manor Quidditch Pitch used to be, and there were a couple different creatures there.”  Benjen picked his story back up, aware after listening to Harry’s just how much they mirrored each other in intent if not details.  “Thestral, my old motorbike, an Abraxan, but right off I knew what I was going to go for, if it didn’t barbeque me for my audacity.”

“A dragon?”  Harry guessed easily with a grin.

“A dragon.”  Benjen nodded.  “Similar to how you described your Balerion but smaller I would think and a different color: dark grey with silver wings.”

“Silver wings?”  Harry quirked a grin at Benjen.  “You know which dragon that was…right Padfoot?”

“Yes, yes.”  Benjen rolled his eyes.  “The old women who like to tell tales at Winterfell helped me figure it out.  My dragon was a she-dragon, Silverwing the mate of Vermithor the _Bronze Fury_ , one of the few dragons to ever visit Winterfell.”

“Dragons can change sex according to the works of Maester Barth.”  Harry pointed out, having been told as such by his Uncle-Maester Aemon.  “Sometimes they’ll stay one or the other, but most change at some point during their long lifespans.”  He couldn’t help but twit Benjen at least a little.  “Except for maybe Silverwing…”

“Ha, ha.”  Benjen rolled his eyes.  “Very funny, pup.”

“The first bit was confusing, wasn’t it?”  Harry grumbled a bit.

“Bloody weird if you ask me.”  Benjen shivered.  “I’m just glad I don’t remember most of the first year, or I’d probably never be able to look my mum in the eye.”

“How are they?”  Harry asked, hoping that what he knew was right and Benjen had landed in a better family this time around.  “The Starks?”

“Da’s a bit ambitious.”  Benjen shrugged.  “But nothing of the level of Walburga and my Mum more than makes up for it.  Brandon, Ned, and Lya are all grand, like having the Marauders back again almost.  We’re pack.”

Harry snorted a bit.  “Direwolves.”

“Like you can talk, dragon-boy.”  Benjen rubbed his knuckles against the top of Harry’s head.  “Being Benjen Stark, youngest of the Stark brood is loads better than Sirius Black, white sheep of the Black family.  What’s being Jaeherys Targaryen, Heir of the Iron Throne like?”

“Good and bad.”  Harry shrugged in echo of Benjen’s own gesture.  “Like you said: loads better than before.  Aerys was bat-shit though.”  He said through the lens of time and experience.  “A good dad most of the time but still bat-shit.  Probably a good thing he died, much as it has stressed Rhaegar almost to the bone.  Mum’s a lot happier anyway.”

“Well, there’s that at least…”

…

Anytime you bring a group of children together of more than two or three, natural groups would arise.  Often flexible and ever-changing groups perhaps, but groups nonetheless.  For Jaeherys and his companions, it became evident within the first week that the core group was certain to be made of Jaeherys, Benjen, and Tyrion.  Jaeherys and Benjen for their seeming immediate connection, and Jaeherys and Tyrion for the latter being the first same-age friend of the former.

The trio became the central bedrock that the other boys rallied around, looked to for guidance, and joined in with lessons, escapades, and general troublemaking that led to more than one servant belowstairs throwing up their hands in despair.

Looking back on it, there were times before the boys became old enough to squire that Ser Barristan was shocked the Red Keep remained standing through the trio’s antics.

But then what did one expect throwing together a dragon, a lion, and a direwolf?

…

_279 AC, Riverrun_

Five-year-old Prince Jaeherys Targaryen squirmed in his fine silk and wool tunic and leggings, each in deep black.  His tunic had the three-headed dragons of his House picked out in red rubies from one as large as his thumb to some so small you could barely see them.  At his back was a fine cloak, again in black, with the dragon sigil embroidered from his shoulders to his knees and an edging done in a golden threaded motif of two dragons rampant facing: his personal sigil as a second-son and current heir of the Iron Throne.  His feet were clad in black boots similar to his brother the King’s from the Lannisport tourney, a gift from Rhaegar before Harry departed the Red Keep to play ambassador at Riverrun in the stead of the King and Dowager Queen.

It was his first trip alone of formal weight and affairs, and for a simple reason: Brandon Stark was wedding Catelyn Tully.

Rhaegar couldn’t be seen to be playing favorites among his lords, so attending himself was out of the question as no special relationship that would allow his presence existed between Rhaegar and either family.

Jaeherys on the other hand, was best-friends with Brandon’s youngest brother as well as friends and companions with Lady Catelyn’s younger brother and Heir of Riverrun Edmure, making his presence more than welcome without risk of showing favoritism to one house over another.

Few were the events Rhaegar could attend that weren’t either hosted by him or in his honor for fear or causing offense or playing favorites, an issue of politics that affected Kings but not princes.

Rhaella had more freedom as a Dowager Queen than Rhaegar did as a King, but simply put she didn’t much like either Hoster Tully or Rickard Stark and saw no reason to inflict them on herself if she didn’t have to.

Benjen of course had been ecstatic that he didn’t have to do without his “Harry” as all the Golden Companions had been invited by Lord Rickard and Lady Lyarra, and even being stuffed into pale-grey formal clothes couldn’t dampen the shine of introducing all his friends to his family.

By the time Benjen had been brought to the Red Keep to be a companion to the prince, he’d settled fully into his new life.  He’d mourned his friends and his pup, but knew that second chances such as he’d been granted were rare.  In time, he’d stopped thinking about Sirius Black at all, save in moments alone or in dreams when he could think back on James or Remus or Harry and allow himself to remember – if only for a little while.  As a result, when Harry had done what the mini-Marauder did best and defied the odds, finding his godfather in a strange new world, he hadn’t thought of himself as Sirius Black for a long time, much of his former life seeming almost a bad dream half-remembered in comparison to the happiness he’d found at Winterfell.

Maybe if he’d had a name like Harry’s Jaeherys that was close, he would have tried to keep his name from before.  As it was, he liked being Benjen.  Benjen had loving parents, siblings who loved him, and a future that was up for him to choose so long as it didn’t bring shame to House Stark.

A much better beginning than Sirius Black had had, and so Benjen Stark he stayed, even in private with Harry, though the pup slipped every once and awhile and called him Padfoot or Siri, he found that from his Prongslet he didn’t really mind.

Benjen’s magic had stayed with him as well, the magic following the soul as he’d been taught in his first life, and not being anchored to the physical body.  It wasn’t as powerful as Harry’s but it never had been, even when he was an adult and Harry a baby.  His pup had always been exceptional, being Jaeherys Targaryen hadn’t changed that one little bit.  The Starks had a magic of their own as well, if a different kind than that of his and Harry’s first world, as did the Targaryens.

The Northmen called it “warging” the ability to skin-change or take control of a familiar animal, seeing and living through their eyes.

Targaryens were rumored to have similar skill with their now-gone dragons, as well as an inclination to both foresight and pyromancy.

None of his siblings could do it from what he could tell, and who knew about Harry and his brothers without dragons, but if Benjen wanted he’d be willing to bet he’d be able to warg.  Still and all, he’d rather be able to access his Animagus form than warg.  At least, when he was old enough.

That was really the only kick in the ass over being reborn.

He was only seven years old at the moment, and had at least five or six years to wait before he’d be mature enough to try and shift into his Animagus form.

Harry thought that he might not be Padfoot anymore as Grims didn’t exist in Westeros from what either of them could find.  Benjen was okay with that.  It just meant that he hoped he was a direwolf instead.

Considering how big they could get as adults, that would be bloody wicked…if a bit conspicuous.

First however, he had to get through his brother’s ruddy wedding to fussy Catelyn Tully.

Brandon didn’t _want_ to marry her, though Benjen was pretty sure only his siblings and his Barbarey knew that.  Well, and Harry.  But Harry knew everything Benjen knew, as close a friend to him in this life as James had been in the last one, a state of affairs that both of them were at ease with given that between rebirth and Azkaban, there wasn’t much difference in their mental maturity.

Rickard wanted more for his heir than wedding the daughter of one of his northern vassals however, so Brandon was stuck with Cat instead of his Barbarey.

Catelyn, from what Benjen could tell, as all atwitter at marrying the handsome Stark Heir.  Given that her other options were a nearly-penniless Petyr Baelish that was arse over tits in love with her, or brash Robert Baratheon, old Jon Arryn – though he’d finally remarried the year before, Oberyn Martell, or younger-than-her Jaime Lannister, Benjen couldn’t really blame her…even if Barbarey probably did.  The Tullys were an odd bunch though, except for Edmure who seemed to have been saved from his family’s quirks by being sent to the Red Keep.

Lysa Tully was _definitely_ off, and never before had Benjen been so glad to be a youngest son than when he’d met the younger Tully daughter.

If there was one thing his first life had taught him, it was how to spot crazy, and Lysa nearly stank of it.

…

The wedding of Brandon Stark and Catelyn Tully was the first in the newest round of shifting alliances and contracted betrothals that made up the great game of the Great Houses of Westeros.

Naturally, it hadn’t gone off without a hitch, as a young lovesick fool by the name of Petyr Baelish had challenged Brandon Stark, considered by most to be one of the best swordsmen in the North if not all of Westeros, to a duel for Catelyn’s hand.  A fool’s challenge, and one he’d barely survived with his life intact and that only at the pleas of the Lady Catelyn for her childhood friend – which had done little to calm the storm of rumors that his intemperance had set fire to.  Still, he escaped the duel with his life if a new scar from cock to navel, and Brandon was content to let that be the end of it.

Only it wasn’t, as no sooner had the bedding ceremony been finished, and the two newlyweds hidden away to consummate the alliance of Stark and Tully, the Riverlands and the North, than another pair snuck away themselves.

Lysa Tully was as foolish and foolhardy as Baelish – and just as lovesick.

A hue and cry was raised the next morning when the pair of lovesick fools: one for Baelish and the other for his bedmate’s sister, were found together by Lysa’s septa.

Brandon, roused by the raucous, threatened to finish the job he’d started unless Baelish wed Lysa and remove the stain he’d cast on the Tully honor.

And so it was done, though soon enough neither of the foolish couple found themselves pleased with the outcome, Baelish lingering in Riverrun just long enough to see if his seed had taken in Lysa and then fucking off to Essos when her next courses arrived perfectly on schedule, leaving the disgraced daughter of House Tully to be her father’s problem instead of his.

The following year a great tourney was hosted by Lord Whent at Harrenhal, in honor of Rhaegar’s fifth year of rule as well as to find a suitable match for his daughter and heiress Shaera.

It was that tourney which heralded a spat of weddings and betrothals, as no sooner had Rhaegar caught sight of a fifteen-year-old Lyanna Stark hiding the shield of the Knight of the Laughing Tree and met her dancing grey eyes, than he met his match, seeking out Lord Rickard for a betrothal after swearing to the Lady that he would keep her secret.

With Rhaegar taken by Lyanna, though it aggrieved many as never before had a Targaryen King or Prince married a daughter of House Stark, other matches and weddings and babes soon followed, with the newest Prince of Dragonstone the first among them, barely a full nine months after the She-Wolf of Winterfell found herself wedded and bedded to the Silver King of House Targaryen.

The first of the new round of heirs of Great Houses to be born was to Jon Arryn, who had wed Lara Royce the year before Brandon Stark wed his Cat, with a son named Edric following the year after.  Brandon and Catelyn’s first son Theos came the same year as his sister met, wed, and bed the Silver King in 280 AC.  As if these births and weddings were a thunderclap startling fractious horses, Harry watched with deep amusement as one by one the noble children whose betrothals or marriages had been put off until Rhaegar chose a bride were matched and married one by one – or two by two as was the case with the double wedding of the Heir of the Rock Jaime with Jon Arryn’s niece Alayne Arryn and his sister Cersei’s to the Heir of House Baratheon.  Of the former marriage, most thought little.  Alayne Arryn was pretty enough and gave Jaime – and more importantly Tywin – two male heirs within four years with a daughter to follow.

Of the former…well.

The marriage of Cersei and Robert was nothing less than high comedy to Harry and those in the know, with much of the betting surrounding it running to whether the hot-blooded and quick-tempered pair would kill each other during a screaming match or an angry hate-fuck.

Either way, heirs with black hair and either blue or green eyes followed in quick succession, with three boys total and a daughter for boisterous Robert to dote upon, who was likewise the apple of her grandfather Steffon’s eye.

One other love match of note came of the tourney at Harrenhal, that of Ned Stark, the “quiet wolf”, and Ashara Dayne.

His brother Brandon might be more renowned for his skill with a blade, but Ned Stark was nearly his equal and while unable to best the Sword of Morning, at least fought him to a standstill and a draw in the competition.  A fight that was spiced with the knowledge that beautiful Ashara compared all men to her famous brother and always seemed to find them lacking.  Ned might have needed his brother to ask Ashara to dance for him, too shy and frozen with fear to ask her himself, but when it came to the ring with a goal, he needed no help.

Ashara was chosen as one of the new Queen Lyanna’s ladies, the couple moving to court where Ned assisted with the training and drills of both the Targaryen household guard and the Gold Cloaks, moving to become the Targaryen Master-at-Arms in time as between his still-strong father and brother, plus his brother’s heirs, Ned wasn’t truly _needed_ at Winterfell anymore following the birth of Theos, allowing him to seek his own fortune elsewhere if he so desired.

A fate that Ned Stark shared with his own brother Benjen, and Benjen’s closest companions Jaeherys Targaryen and Tyrion Lannister.


	4. Summerhall

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Three: Summerhall**

…

_290 AC, the Ruins of Summerhall, the Stormlands_

Rhaegar had watched his younger brothers grow with proud eyes long before he wed and had children of his own.

Viserys was a sweet boy, even at fourteen namedays old, who learned the high harp and High Valyrian at Rhaegar’s knee, preferring their mother’s sunny solar and gardens to the lists or the training grounds.  And that was just fine.  Were Rhaegar another man, he would have been pleased to be a scholar or a Maester, but his destiny had been to be a King over warriors and Lords, who while they respected learned men, never really understood them.  If Viserys wanted nothing more in his life than to sing sweet songs in High Valyrian and make love all day, then far be it from Rhaegar to stop him.  There were days he thought Viserys only agreed to serve as squire for Ser Barristan because he idolized his knightly elder brothers, particularly Jaeherys who while a bit older than Viserys, never made the younger boy feel lesser, including him in his antics whenever Viserys wished it, despite some grumbling from _both_ their friends.

It was Jaeherys that worried him as time passed.

The middle brother of them, Jaeherys ran wild through the Red Keep or Dragonstone, his companions by his side as they got into every form of trouble under the Westerosi sun save for siring bastards.

That wasn’t to say that Jaeherys was without discipline, far from it.

If Rhaegar didn’t know that the idea of foreswearing a spouse and children was anathema to Jaeherys, he’d think the life of a Kingsguard would have suited no one better than Jaeherys, while as things were it might well be Viserys that sought that honor in time.

House Targaryen hadn’t produced a better knight or swordsman – including Rhaegar himself – since Prince Aemon the Dragonknight.  Jaeherys had an… _instinct_ for battle that Rhaegar had never seen in another, even his best-friend Ser Arthur.  His reflexes and ability to weave around an opponent were unmatched, winning him his knighthood at a tourney in Highgarden the year before when he arose as the champion of the sword.  His friend Benjen was much the same, though the Northman and Rhaegar’s good-brother preferred the bow to the sword.

Honestly, if it weren’t for Tyrion keeping the two grounded, they probably would have already wandered off to Essos and the Disputed Lands or gone ranging in the Far North.

Westeros under Rhaegar was enjoying a long peace, the first it had had in years and certainly not under his father’s rule.  The Iron Islands would rumbled now and again, but so long as Quellon Greyjoy sat in the Seastone chair and kept an iron fist on his troublesome sons, there was no chance of outright rebellion. 

To make matters worse, all of Jaeherys’s companions had been recalled by their fathers and families now that they were knighted, with only Benjen and Tyrion remaining, Viserys having “stolen” Beric for his own, the Dondarrion heir sharing his friendship equally between the royal princes whilst he squired for Ser Oswell Whent.  They were getting married, learning the rule of a noble house, and Jaeherys while he’d drill and train and play with his nieces and nephews or squire his mother about the kingdom as needed…Jaeherys was _bored_.

And a bored Jaeherys never led to anything good.

He needed a vocation, something to keep his too-quick mind active and his hands busy lest he make trouble even Rhaegar would have a problem freeing him from.

Hence, Rhaegar had brought the trio here, to one of his favorite places in the world to set them a task that should keep them busy for a good while.

Summerhall.

…

“What does the King want with us, Harry?”  Tyrion asked, with sincere bafflement.  Little occurred in King’s Landing – or Westeros for that matter – that the youngest Lion of Lannister didn’t know about, at time even before events came to pass.  So for the King to cloak an order in a “request” for his brother and friends, known to most of the Crownlands and beyond as the “Three Terrors of the Red Keep”, or Three Terrors for short, to join him and it to come as a surprise to Tyrion was not a pleasant turn of events for the dwarf.

Tyrion loved three things in all the world above others: his siblings’ children – if not Cersei herself, wine, his brothers – born and chosen, and well, women.

He supposed that was four things or even more depending on how one counted but still – the meaning stood.

All of those things were easily accessible from the Red Keep, save for Jaime and his children who spent most of the year at the Rock, Jaime hacking away at knight after knight in endless rounds of “training” or playing with his children.  Jaime might not be what one could call a _deep_ man himself, living as he did for fighting and his children.  That there hadn’t been a good war since before Rhaegar’s ascent to the throne was lamented by the likes of Jaime and their good-brother Robert Baratheon – probably the _only_ thing the two had in common aside from Cersei, though Tyrion had it on good authority that between Steffon and Tywin the twins had been kept apart almost totally since their dual wedding.  With the frequency Cersei was popping out staglings with black hair, rather than lion cubs with gold, he thought their fathers more an adequate for the job.

Either that, or Jaime had lost his _appreciation_ for Cersei’s charms once he’d spent enough time away from her venomous grasp.

His wife, not a dull woman but neither overly bright for all that she was a sweet thing, was certainly pretty enough and had given Jaime three children of his own with Lannister green eyes and golden hair.

While Tyrion could see the appeal of having to mind thorns in order to pluck a vibrant rose, there was something to be said for the ease of wandering through fields of wildflowers as well.

And as Tyrion currently had a pair of bastard nieces to go with his true-born ones, Jaime must be enjoying the fields of opportunity afforded to the Heir of Casterly Rock with no jagged thorns to navigate among them.

“My brother wasn’t inclined to share his plans.”  Harry told him honestly.

“My gold’s on him trying to keep us occupied and out of trouble.”  Benjen said with a laughing snort at the eye-roll that got him from Tyrion.

As if _that_ had ever been in question.

Now that he and Harry had finished their knight’s training and taken their vows, the whole of the Seven Kingdoms seemed to wait with baited breath over what trouble they’d get into next.  Tales of pranks and mischief had been thin on the ground over the last handful of years, the Kingsguard keeping them running in part to train them up as credits to their time and names, and in part to keep them too tired for making havoc.  It had worked – for the most part – but with Tyrion having time on his hands with only his studies with Maester Aemon, and his father for all that neither of them enjoyed a single moment of it – they always seemed to find time for a brawl or a bet anyway.

It was the considered opinion of more than one person – highborn and low – that perhaps the Prince and his companions should be sent to Essos for a time.

Whether as official envoys to one or more of the Free Cities, or to fight and fuck their hot blood out in the Disputed Lands, no one really cared.

So long as when they returned, it was with a bit of _temperance_ ingrained in their beings.

Jaeherys in particular was in a difficult position.  Neither young enough to be content staying in the Red Keep in idle leisure, nor old enough to serve his brother as a member of his Small Council, Jaeherys was bored – and there were few things more dangerous than a bored Jaeherys Targaryen with Benjen Stark and Tyrion Lannister at his side.  Some said that with his skills, he could be best used as a member of the Kingsguard but never had a suggestion suited a knight so ill.

Rhaegar, thankfully, knew that about Harry and so had never even mentioned it in idleness, let alone as a serious suggestion.

Harry needed…well… _more_ than just playing doting uncle to his brother’s children and helping kick the Gold Cloaks and Targaryen men-at-arms into line.

And being a Maester or a man of the Night’s Watch would suit him even less than the Kingsguard.

He was at loose ends for the first time in _either_ life…and he hated it.

Harry could be anything he wanted – and nothing had ever left him so paralyzed with terror before.

One of the few, if only, fully informed choices Harry had truly made during his first life was to _not_ continue it and move on to his next great adventure on the back of Balerion.  At first, as Prince Jaeherys Targaryen, _choice_ had also been a foreign concept with much of his life planned out from his birth.  While the plans had shifted with his father’s death and Rhaegar’s crowning, they hadn’t changed, not really.  He was still the Heir of the Iron Throne, even if now he was Prince of Dragonstone.  He was still expected to grow and learn and eventually become a warrior or a maester and support his brother in all things.

None of that ever really changed until his nephew Aegon, Prince of Dragonstone was born nine years ago.

Harry still had to support his brother, but in a different way now that the mantle of a future king was lifted from his shoulders.  Freedom of choice entered his life again, and for the most part Harry had been proven adapt at _avoiding_ it.  That hadn’t stopped others from realizing, long before he had, that the life of a pampered princeling wasn’t for Harry.

He had, as his mother told him fondly time and again, too much of the dragon blood to truly be contended with the life of privilege he’d been born into.

Viserys might be able to fill his days with sweet wines, stories, and the high harp, but Jaeherys was a different creature than his younger brother, than either of his brothers when one came down to it, and it wasn’t just his reborn nature showing through, though it did play a part.

Targaryens tended to be of several different makes and kinds, not unlike the dragons of their sigil.

They could be good, kind, and wise.

They could be terrifying, cruel, and monstrous.

Or they could be protective, cunning, and fierce.

That wasn’t to say that every dragon or Targaryen fell into one generalization without taking from the others, or that there were never any outliers, or that they didn’t evolve through the trials of life into something other than they were originally made to be.

Viserys and Rhaegar both tended towards the first type of Targaryen.  Good to the people, kind to their friends and family, loving men who loved to learn.  Both had dangerous tempers as all Targaryens did, but overall they were good, honorable men.

Jaeherys, well, between his first life and his knight’s training of his second, plus the influence of his friends and the court, had very much grown into his Slytherin side, melding it into his Gryffindor nature until he was every inch the snake in lion’s skin and a fierce Targaryen that pummeled more than one idiot into the ground on patrols with the Gold Cloaks or cut panderers and sycophants panting after his brother in court to pieces with his scathing, cunning tongue.

Lord Tywin, naturally, liked him immensely, which scared Jaeherys more than a little and was one of the reasons he’d leapt at Rheagar’s order so fast that he all-but hauled his friends behind him and left a smoke trail all the way from the Red Keep.

Dismounting from their horses, the trio who had journeyed long from King’s Landing with only their packs – no need for guards for three non-heir nobleborn sons, two of which were knights and all of them even Tyrion well able to camp rough as needed after years of training with the knights of the Kingsguard for any eventuality or traveling to various holdings – nodded to the train brought along by Rhaegar which included Viserys and the young squires of the Kingsguard such as Jaeherys’s cousin Renly, stretching their legs before following Ser Arthur’s directions to find the King among the ruins.

At Harry’s insistence, Tyrion had never been excluded from the activities and training of the other heirs and boys with the Kingsguard, even if his short stature precluded him from becoming either a squire or knight.  Tyrion was his friend, and while some things had changed over time as Harry became used to his new world and new reality in Westeros as a second son of a king, his loyalty to his friends was not one of them.  More than once, he’d joked that without Tyrion he and Benjen would have spent more time getting their backsides tanned by the Kingsguard then anything else as the young Lion was very much the brains of their trio while Benjen was the fun and Harry the daring, though all of them had those same traits just in different measures.  Willas and the others often despaired over them when they inevitably _were_ caught dyeing the Kingsguard cloaks rainbow colors or hiding the new Master of Whispers – a Lyseni eunuch named Varys, who was sent for by Rhaegar from Pentos when Oberyn finally got bored of politics and the games of the Great Houses – favorite fan in Lord Tywin’s bedchambers.  As if their other friends never joined in their “adventures” themselves, the bloody pillocks.

Harry supposed as Heirs they had their reasons for keeping a lower profile than the trio of spares, though that only challenged them to come up with ever more-clever pranks and ideas to keep them involved and out of their fathers’ ire.

Leaving his friends to stand back with Ser Arthur as Harry proceeded, the Sword of Morning keeping careful watch over King Rhaegar as the silver-haired Targaryen played his high harp in the midst of the ruins of Summerhall, a scene that had repeated itself many times over the years, though less often since Rhaegar had become king, Harry felt a smile tugging at his mouth as he saw the peaceful look on Rhaegar’s face, his brother’s eyes were closed as his hands plucked the strings from practice and memory, his youngest daughter four-year-old Daenerys watching him with enraptured light lavender eyes, her fall of silver hair a match for her fathers braided back to tame the tumble of curls she’d inherited from her grandmother Rhaella.

Loathe to interrupt the serene scene, Harry padded over on quiet feet, coming to join Daenerys sitting at his brother’s feet, lifting her with a smile onto his lap and wrapping his niece in a gentle embrace.  The little princess snuggled into her favored uncle’s arms, head resting on the soft fine-wool tunic he wore in deference to the cool Fall day.  Winter was finally coming after a long summer, one of the longest on record, lasting almost all of Harry’s sixteen years of life.  They’d had a short two-year winter when he was a babe, but it had been a long spring and longer summer since.  The Citadel had sent out white ravens to hail the official beginning of Fall five turns before, warning that it would last less than a handful of years.  In Winterfell, Benjen’s brother Brandon had written that the migrations were normal, and that the northern animal furs were of average thickness, anticipating a winter of only two or three years.

All good omens for the Targaryen reign, ones not seen in Westeros for many years as the winters had grown longer and the summers shorter since the death of the last stunted dragon after the Dance.

In private, Harry and Benjen speculated that it might have less to do with dragons than it did magic, as both knew from _before_ that of all creatures dragons, unicorns, and even basilisks were some of the most concentrated forms of magic – _wild_ magic in particular – one could find.

If so, then their coming to this world with their magic strong and intact, might have been for more reasons than just the whims of dragon-spirits, who were as wild and unpredictable as their once-living selves.

Rhaegar let the music fall away a few minutes after Jaeherys joined them, leaning over to pluck his silver-haired daughter from her uncle’s arms, giving her a soft kiss upon the cheek and leaving her in the care of Ser Arthur, who she loved as much as any of her other uncles and almost as much as Jaeherys, commanding Jaeherys:

“Walk with me.”  Before leading him away from what was once a beautiful garden and was now relegated to decayed columns and overgrown wildflowers, but not without its own charm.  The two brothers, Silver King and Golden Prince, walked in silence for long moments, each lost in his own thoughts, before Rhaegar led them to a stop at the remains of a terrace.  Crumbling and falling down, it couldn’t bear the weight of a child let alone two grown men, but it did give a stunning view of the Summerhall ruins and the red foothills beyond.  “I know you’re not happy, brother.”

“Rhaegar…”

The King held up a hand in a soft demand for Harry to quiet his objections – of which he was certain to make many – to that statement.

“You’re not.”  Rhaegar arched a knowing brow, all but _daring_ Harry to attempt to object once more, his green-eyed brother folding in his lips and almost visibly biting his tongue to obey the demand for Rhaegar to speak unchallenged.  “See?”  Rhaegar laughed a little.  “Even now as you try to both object and obey, you’re dissatisfied.”  Rhaegar smirked a bit at his middle brother, who stood nearly even with the tall king but had room left to grow where Rheagar had long ago settled into his adult form with a height that nearly challenged their Baratheon cousins.  “You’re not made to be an idle palace knight or prince, Jaeherys.  Obedience does not come easy to you, it never has.”

Harry gave a quiet sigh and a half-hearted shrug at that, a rueful look upon his face.  His brother may not want him to speak, but he could make his thoughts known nonetheless.  And even he couldn’t deny Rhaegar’s statement – and gods knew no one else ever would.

 _Independent_ was one of the nicest terms he’d heard in either life for his personal issues with authority.  With Rhaegar as his king, it had gotten a little easier, and serving as a squire had given him the discipline to temper his almost knee-jerk defiance, but…  At the end of the day, Harry was still Harry.

“You’re not a lord.”  Rhaegar continued after waiting a beat to see if Jaeherys would speak despite his wordless command otherwise.  “Nor the Heir of the Iron Throne any longer.  You are a knight, but have no desire to serve in the Kingsguard or captain the Gold Cloaks for all that you’ll drill with them to keep occupied.”  Occupation, was very much at the heart of the problem Rhaegar believed and his mother, wife, and the Kingsguard who knew Jaeherys best all agreed.  “You’re not made to still idle, Jaeherys, nor for the life of a Maester, the Night’s Watch, or the Fait.”  Rhaegar gestured to him in emphasis.  “What _do_ you plan to do with yourself?  Have you given the matter any thought?”

“Tired of having me underfoot already, brother?”  Harry joked good-naturedly, Rhaegar leveling him an unamused glance in response.  Harry sighed, shrugging once more.  “I thought I might travel for lack of any better idea.  Lords Rickard and Tywin have both offered lodging at their seats if we do go off.  Oberyn as well on behalf of Dorne.”

Rhaegar muttered something that sounded like “Oberyn _would_ ,” under his breath, Harry ignoring him and continuing.

“But it’s been sometime since a Targaryen has been to Essos, if nothing less it would keep me busy making contact with the Free Cities, seeing about expanding trade maybe…”  Harry trailed off, already bored just with the thought of it.

His brother snorted, rolling his expressive indigo eyes.  “Yes, excellent plan.”  Rhaegar told him.  “You’ll be bored in a turn and start a war with your and your friends’ antics inside two – probably between the Three Sisters over Tyrion falling in love with a Lyseni courtesan or Benjen stealing a triarch’s wife.”  Harry coughed a laugh, grinning.  It was entirely possible after all.  “Thankfully for our ongoing state of peace,” Rhaegar ruffled his brother’s hair, showing he meant no offense.  “I _have_ given the matter some thought.”  He waved to the vista of the ruins.  “Tell me, Jaeherys, what do you see here?”

“A waste.”  Harry answered a beat later, too familiar with the history of Summerhall to need to think long on it.  “Caused by an obsessive need to chase past glories.”

Rhaegar hummed under his breath, interested as always in the twists his brother’s mind took.  While their educations had been identical, Jaeherys tended to have an incisive insight into motivations that pierced to the heart of matters.  Rhaegar took a broad view of the past and people, while Jaeherys seemed to disregard the people entirely for their thoughts and actions.  Rhaegar saw them, Jaeherys saw _though_ them.

A disconcerting trait, especially when it was focused on oneself with an intensity that rivaled a hawk after prey.

Jaeherys at least seemed aware of the effect he had upon others when his green eyes sharpened to a sword’s point, and used it with as much care and cutting effect as his friend Tyrion’s rapier tongue.

If his brother was another man, Rhaegar would be a fool to have him anywhere but upon his Small Council.  Jaeherys _wasn’t_ another man however, and while he would do his duty by both his brother and the throne, he wouldn’t be happy in the process.  With a peaceful Seven Kingdoms aside from standard squabbles among the lords and a half-dozen heirs including Jaeherys, Rhaegar had no real _need_ to shackle his brother to the council and wed him to duty.

What he could do was give Jaeherys time to discover just who it was Jaeherys Targaryen wanted to be now that he didn’t have to worry over the Iron Throne passing into his care or polishing Ser Barristan’s saddle or learning how to use a sword.

“Someday the dragons will return.”  Rhaegar said with the tone of bedrock faith in his words.  “Though I doubt wildfire will be the cause.”  He ignored Jaeherys’s snort over the foolish attempts several Targaryens had made to hatch dragon eggs – or in the case of Aerion the Monstrous become a dragon in truth – thought wildfire.  “Prophecy tells of a promised prince and the return of dragons heralded by smoke and salt.”

“ _Prophecy_.”  Harry drawled, holding into his desire to sneer with the tips of his fingers.  Ever he had to remind himself that Rhaegar was his brother but he was _also_ his king.  And one did not implied that the King was an idiot.  “Is like a half-trained mule.  Appears useful, but the moment you put your trust in it, it kicks you in the head.”

And he’d know.

“So little faith, little brother.”  Rhaegar shook his head with a laugh.  “The septons have failed in you.”

“I’ll believe in gods the day one shows up and does more than cause suffering.”  Harry _did_ sneer this time.  “Until then, I’ll consider driving the High Septon crazed with my heresy and faithless ways.  Or maybe send him into apoplexy and convert to worship of the old gods like you and the Starks.”

“I allow worship of all the gods in Westeros, brother.”  Rhaegar sighed, already giving up on that topic and getting back to the point of all this.  “In any case.”  He shot Jaeherys a firm glance when he opened his mouth to continue on that same track.  “I have one last task for you to complete.  I have hope that in doing so you will at least have time to make a plan for your future _beyond_ bedeviling our trade allies in Essos.”  Though he wasn’t discounting the possibility that Jaeherys might do that anyway…just because he could.  “Summerhall.”

“Summerhall?”  Harry echoed, frowning and with a sinking feeling in his guts.  “Summerhall…what?”

“Restoring it, rebuilding it.”  Rhaegar waved once again to the massive ruins as Jaeherys groaned and grumbled under his breath, feeling a bit of vindictive pleasure at his brother’s bitching after all the complaints he’s handled from the household guard, Gold Cloaks, Small Council, and nobles about his brother and his friends over the years.

Though curiously, none at all from the servants, smallfolk, and hardworking merchants or craftspeople, who seemed to be the only ones given an unspoken reprieve from Jaeherys’s particular brand of chaotic entertainment.

“This is punishment for honey in Lord Tywin’s bedclothes isn’t it?”  Harry narrowed his eyes suspiciously at his brother’s too-placid profile.

“No,” Rhaegar smothered the need to laugh, remembering his Hand showing up to council with honey and feathers still stuck in his hair about a fortnight before Rhaegar set off for Summerhall to await his brother’s arrival from Highgarden.  “Though I imagine the Red Keep will breath a sigh of relief for getting a reprieve from your antics, Jaeherys, this isn’t a punishment.  It’s a challenge.  Restore Summerhall, one last task for the throne, and you’ll be free to do what you like with your future without a cross word from myself _or_ mother.”

Harry turned that over a moment.

It would take years, or at least would have to seem to, as magic could likely make much of it vastly easier than labor would alone.

But what his brother was offering in turn was nothing less than his freedom from the chains that bound a royal son and heir to the throne – even if he was fifth in line, he was still in line and expected to behave a certain way.

“Can Benjen and Tyrion stay and help me?”

Rhaegar gave a soft laugh.

“I’d never dream of separating you three, though I imagine you’ll need more help than that soon enough.”  Rhaegar took another look around the ruins.  “The funds have already been set aside for the restoration for some time, and the Small Council will only need letters of what supplies and labor you require.”  Rhaegar clapped his brother on the back, grasping him by the neck and lowering his forehead to meet Jaeherys’s own.  “Do this, brother, and you’ll be as free as the dragons once were.”

…

That night, Harry sat around a fire with his two best-friends, explaining the charge Rhaegar had given him both as his brother and as his King.

“Well.”  Tyrion said after a long moment, breaking the silence between the two brooders who would stay lost in their thoughts as they stared in the fire for hours if he left them to it – a lamentable trait that young Prince Aegon seemed to have inherited in spades from his melding of Targaryen and Stark blood.  “All the freedom to roam you – and more importantly _we_ – could ask for in exchange for a palace.”  Tyrion smirked at his friend, taking a deep drink of his wine skin.  “What are you waiting for?  Hop to.”

Benjen snorted as Harry threw a pebble at Tyrion, the dwarf gasping in mock-offense at the “barbaric display against a man of my stature!”

Tyrion did like his puns.

“He’s not asking you to reinvent the wheel or hatch dragons or roll a stone uphill for all eternity, Harry.”  Benjen pointed out.  “A couple years to figure out what to do with ourselves before we fall into some scandal even your brother can’t haul us back out of is a good deal.”

And minor recompense for all the trouble they’ve caused in the past dozen or so years, if one looked at it that way, which the Small Council most assuredly did.

Harry grimaced admitting: “I know all that, Benji, Tyrion.  It’s not Summerhall that’s the problem – it’s what comes after.”

“What do you mean?”  Tyrion asked after trading glances with Benjen.

“This about what Ollivander said to you?”  Benjen asked with the insight that had made him one of the deadliest Aurors his old world ever saw.  “Or the hat?”

Rather than being lost, Tyrion knew what Benjen was alluding to, having been allowed into the secret the pair shared years before.  Hard of him _not_ to know by now between his ability to learn secrets and the way the two obviously shared one.  What was much more impressive was that they’d managed to hide their magic – not to mention advanced maturity – from everyone _else_.  Then Tyrion remembered just how childish Benjen could be and he realized that it wasn’t hiding maturity that was the problem, it was remembering that they weren’t _supposed_ to be as immature as they often were in the past that let him see through the mask.

“Terrible but great.”  Tyrion shrugged.  “Sounds like any monarch I’ve ever read of, even the so-called _good_ kings had atrocities committed at their order or in their name.  Anyone who tells you otherwise is either a fool or a liar.”

“The problem with that statement being that I’m not a king or a monarch, Tyrion.”  Harry remined him drily.  “Which is part of the problem.  I was raised for years to be the Heir, to make the hard decisions that comes with the throne.  Now I have that ability and nothing to do with it.”

“You’ve always had it, pup.”  Benjen reminded him.  “You were a king in all but name in England.  The level of responsibility they put on you – even me – is the sort that crushes lesser men.  And no one has ever accused a Targaryen or a dragon of being lesser.”

Harry refused to take _that_ bait, staring with a mutinous pout forming on his pretty Valyrian features.

“Tell the truth.”  Tyrion said with a laugh.  “How much of your fight against terror in your old world was because it was what was _right_ or because the idiotic twats pissed you off?”

“At least half.”  Benjen wagered, waggling his brows at his godson.  “With most of the rest being bloody-minded stubborn revenge and _maybe_ ten percent fighting for justice.”

“They pissed me off because they hurt those who couldn’t help themselves, Benji.”  Harry glared at the other displaced wizard.  “It…bothers me.”

“Which is why,” Tyrion pointed out with more than a hint of victory in his tone.  “His grace the King is concerned about you gallivanting off to Essos.  I remember the look on your face,” Tyrion reminded him.  “And the arguments that sprung up between you and your Uncle-Maester and brother and even your mother over the foundations of Old Valyria being based upon slavery.  A thriving enterprise in Essos.”

“Do you _really_ believe that you can see such things and do nothing?”  Benjen’s tone was gentle.  “Truly?”

Harry remained silent, turning back to the fire, his lack of rebuttal more telling than an argument would be.

“You’re not ready to take on the world.”  Benjen continued.  “Not yet.  Rhaegar knows that as well as we do.  He’s delaying you not because he doesn’t believe in you, I doubt that you believe that any more than we do.  It’s fear.  Fear of losing you, either to the fight you’re already set on or to what the outcome will do to you – win or lose, you won’t be the same person when it’s all over.”

“You both know?”  Harry asked a long moment later.  “Rhaegar as well?”  Twin nods were his answer.  “Who else?”

“The Kingsguard, for a surety.”  Tyrion speculated.  “Your mother, perhaps my father or Varys but that is likely the extent of it.”

“And Aemon.”  Benjen reminded Tyrion.  “For a man as old and nearly blind as the Grand Maester he sees more than those a quarter his age.”

“And Aemon.”  Tyrion agreed with a shrug.  “Most think you’ll settle with time, others that you’re looking for a purpose.  Only a few of us realize you’ve already found it and are just waiting for the opportune moment to move.”

“Information and funds as well.”  Harry have a half-laugh, conceding with a smile.  “I can’t very well ask the Iron Bank of Braavos to fund a Targaryen conquest of Slaver’s Bay now can I?”  He snorted, rolling his eyes.  “All else aside, how the hells would I repay it?”

“A problem for another day.”  Benjen tapped his booted foot with his own then rolled over onto his bedroll, snuggling down into the blanket.  “For now, worry about how you’re going to rebuild a ruined palace for your brother.  The rest can wait.  One step at a time, pup.  One step at a time.”


	5. Prophecy

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

Author’s Note: Remember, Benjen is Sirius Black reborn.  Meanwhile, I will be using Harry and Jaeherys interchangeably.

_“Born amidst salt and smoke, beneath a bleeding star. I know the prophecy. Not that I would trust it.”_

_– Marwyn, to Samwell Tarly_

**Chapter Four: Prophecy**

Harry, with help – a _lot_ of help – from Tyrion set out to break down the massive task of rebuilding Summerhall into stages by the type of task and order of completion.

Benjen was less helpful, being a nobleman in both of his lives, and training first as an Auror and second as a knight and Ranger.  He’d never planned on becoming a castellan or even Hand of the King like Tyrion did as he’d confided to them years before.  Tywin wouldn’t hold the post _forever_ after all, and if Jaeherys really was going to run around Essos taking on slavery, he’d need someone around with a grasp of basic estate management.

And all the gods knew it wasn’t going to be either of the sword-happy cocks he’d made friends with at the ripe old age of three-years-old.

Jaeherys, granted, wasn’t nearly as bad as he liked to pretend, having been raised throughout his early childhood as the Heir of the Iron Throne and Prince of Dragonstone.  He’d had a castellan and a steward to manage most of the Dragonstone business with oversight from Rhaella, but he’d still had to understand what was being done and why before giving it his seal.  Harry, simply put, just liked to be underestimated, allowing most of Westeros to consider him just another dragon-knight in the making and little more.

Worse, Tyrion knew it was his idea of _fun_ , being underestimated.

Right along with shoving his boot up the arses and intelligence down the throats of those who would discount him as a now-meaningless, wastrel of a knighted Prince.

Summerhall would only be the most recent – and significant – of those moments, as after a mere turn following Rhaegar giving his brother the charge, Westeros was gossiping over the sure-to-come failure of their beloved-but-simple-hearted Golden Prince, the nobility in particular cackling over it.

Strikingly, among those notably _not_ anticipating Jaeherys’s failure were two sets of people: those who had served as squires for the Kingsguard, their friends among the noble heirs, and those who Jaeherys had previously used his underestimated intelligence against either in court – which was rare but had happened, usually Harry taking the part of smallfolk over nobility – or in mischief.

Good but not wise, a bastion of knightly virtues but no budding-general was the common perception of Jaeherys Tagaryen, Prince of Westeros – and that was how he liked it.

The first portion of work to be done was, naturally, clearing the ruins themselves.

Too much of the stone had been blackened and in places even melted from the wildfire to be reused, beyond which Jaeherys and Benjen had a reasonable fear of reusing the stone in case of inviting hauntings to the rebuilt palace.  Benjen was given the task of riding to all the nearby towns and villages, hiring workers – whoever were available and not involved in a harvest – to come and clear away stone.  Given the option of payment plus stone to take back to their villages for walls or septs or cottages, over the course of the next year the grounds were cleared away while Harry ordered new stone from Dorne and the Vale and timber for the adjacent village from the North.  Straw for thatching could wait until the village was close to being settled, but not the rest.

Cost, was a constant hovering shadow.

The Small Council was appeased – at least somewhat – over Jaeherys staying true to Westerosi materials and workers rather than more expensive imports that would have gold leaving their shores without the guarantee of a return.  A precedent that would change – at least in part – when it came time to _furnish_ the palace, but for the moment it was left alone.  More than one member questioned the plans and designs for the palace, but Rhaegar kept them onside.  He’d given the task to Jaeherys after all, they had to let him complete it.

Once the majority of the standing stone was removed and the materials arrived, Harry and Benjen were able to go ahead with their warding.

They couldn’t allow just _anyone_ to ride passed and see them working magic to rebuild the palace.

Using concentric layers of wards, with increasing intensity, they would be able to avoid any uninvited _attention_ , however that didn’t save them from the problem of a palace being built without _workers_ or craftspeople but by magic.

Harry insisted that it needed be by magic, as it would both be easier to ward once finished, preventing another Tragedy, but also as with magic it would be able to stand, unflinching for centuries and become a stronghold for his House, even long after he was gone and despite the aesthetic design seemingly being vulnerable to attack aside from its strategic position upon a high hill overseeing one of the Red Mountain range’s valleys.

As a compromise, they set the village on a neighboring hill, and used the “workers” hired from other villages to build it, whilst modifying their memories – just a bit – to make them believe they’d worked on both projects.

To keep other away and blind to the reality of the project, the concentric wards were layed with a first gentle and then ever-more insistent layers of Notice-Me-Not and Anti-Muggle wardings, with the final layer being an Unplottable charm applied by Benjen that wouldn’t be removed until the palace was finished, keeping even their slightly-confunded workers unaware of the progress of the palace.

With the supplies in hand, the workers taken care of, and the wards up and active, the three friends were free to continue, Benjen and Harry bending their magic to finish clearing the build-site of the detritus of decades of decay post-destruction, and Tyrion spending much of the time either reading, working on accounts, or supervising the workers at the village.

All was going well, with no one any the wiser…until it wasn’t.

…

It would be safe to say – and even Harry would admit – that the events of the third moon of 291 AC could have been predicted by anyone with proper knowledge of both Harry and his first life.

A life where he had proven over and over again to have an affinity for two types of magical things: creatures and artifacts.

From house elves to hippogriffs, enchanted goblin-made swords to Stones of various make and measure, he was drawn to them and them to him.

Some for good, others for ill, but drawn together all the same.

So it wasn’t hard to know, given both his history and that of Summerhall, what he might find there even after the ruins had been searched first by his grandfather Jaehaerys, then his father Aerys’s men, and lastly by his brother Rhaegar who had haunted the ruins in his youth, with no artifacts of any kind, let alone dragon eggs, being recovered.

Not hard to know or predict at all, yet it still managed to take both Harry, his companions, and indeed the entirety of the Known World in time when word finally spread beyond the valley and foothills of Summerhall, by surprise nonetheless.

…

_Valley of Summerhall, 291 AC_

Before laying the foundations of the new Summerhall, Harry and Benjen had to first located and layout the existing foundations and bedrock, including any issues caused by wildfire for the palace collapse, down to the furthest level belowground.  A chore and a half, given that several of the upper floors folded onto each other.  Even with the stone cleared away, the pressure and erosion caused by the destruction and following neglect had punched holes in the surface level, leading down to the underground caverns that were once used to store provisions for the palace or hold prisoners if necessary.

Summerhall had been built in the foothills of the Red Mountains after all, overlooking a prosperous valley, and was well-defensible by position alone, unless attacked from the air by dragons or through sabotage…or an accident involving dragon eggs, obsession, and wildfire.

That left a lot of room for below-ground levels, more than a few of which would have offered reprieve during the hottest parts of the summer season.

Said levels were a pain and a half for Harry and Benjen to clear and shore-up, though after the first level of them there wasn’t much damage, allowing them and Tyrion to set up their camp in the underground away from the Fall chill and storms while also keeping them close to their worksite when they inevitably overworked both their muscles and magic in the restoration.

The worst damage was on the first underground level below what they’d decided from the ruins before they’d been cleared had been the great hall.

Which made sense, as from all surviving accounts of the tragedy, the great hall had been where Aegon the Fifth had made his attempt to bring back the dragons that had died out during the reign of Aegon the Third, called Aegon Dragonbane.

Between the two of them, Harry and Benjen had repaired and shored up the rest of the underground caverns, even going to far as to expand the corridors and create an exodus point that led into the existing cave complex of the Red Mountains, which had existed long before Summerhall had been built as a retreat for House Targaryen, then expanded between the whims of the Princes of Summerhall (as it was typically given over to younger sons with Dragonstone going to the Crown Prince) and their dragons.

They had put off repairing the damage from the great hall collapsing onto the underground complex for sheer simplicity.  It was set to take days or weeks of work just to clear it alone, even with the work done aboveground by the hired workers, and for Harry, keeping the secrets of the underground caverns for his House was a paramount concern given that Summerhall had always been first a place of rest and pleasure, not of fortifications and withstanding a siege.  He wasn’t so foolish – nor was his brother – to think that _all_ of Westeros was happy that their line hadn’t died with their father Aerys.  Let alone that they seemed to be once again flourishing.  If Rhaegar wanted Summerhall restored as his price on Harry’s wandering, he would have it.

But Harry would make it as safe as he could in the process.

Standing in the archway that led to that portion of the cool caverns, Harry stood with his hands on his hips as his godfather came to stand at his side, both taking in the breadth of the job before them.

Crumbled and melted stone, dust and rock and sand, dirt and mold and fungus, shards of wood, decaying carpets and tapestries, all at least knee-deep under the gaping maw of what was once the floor of the great hall and standing open to the sky above, puddles and water damage abounded, and rain continued in through the gap before Benjen tossed up a simple weather-shield to keep them out of the Fall weather as they worked.

“Are you ready for this?”  Benjen quirked a brow, smirking at Harry, earning himself a snort and an eyeroll from the taller – if only by an inch – green-eyed man.

At now seventeen (Jaeherys) and eighteen (Benjen) both were close to growing into their adult height and forms, the hard work of clearing Summerhall that they’d engaged in the past year or so, putting their backs into it alongside the hired workers when not keeping their skills at arms against each other sharp in the early mornings doing much to had hard muscle to teenaged frames.  Benjen was set to be the largest of his brothers, with shoulders as broad as an axe handle, while Jaeherys might never match Rhaegar for sheer mass, as the Silver King was almost of a size with massive Robert Baratheon.  Still, Harry was taller and broader than he’d been at this same age… _before_.

 _Before_ becoming harder and harder for both to think about, given that Harry only had a few more months until he’d lived in Westeros longer than he had England.

Both of them had become a strange mixture of magical knowledge and power, “modern” English sensibility, and Westerosi nobility and knighthood.

More than a few of their contemporaries found them odd.

Even – or maybe especially – those who knew them best such as Edmure Tully and Willas Tyrell.

Tyrion, knowing the cause, simply rolled with it, enjoying the knowledge that every now and again he was able to pry out of their memories of a different land and time – and he never tired of their magic.  For a boy who had once asked for a dragon for his nameday, _magic_ , real magic was a wonderous thing instead of something to be feared as the Citadel and the Faith tried their best to make it.  Westeros had once been a place of rich magic after all, before the Andals came.  A home to the First Men and the Children of the Forest, a refuge for the aquamancers of the Rhoynar, and then first shelter and then conquest for the last pyromancers and dragonlords of Old Valyria.  The Andals may have fled the Valyrians in fear of their magics and dragons, but in the end they hadn’t outrun them and Aegon the First completed what his ancestors had begun before the Doom with the taking of Andalos and the Rhoynish wars.

Wonderous with the potential to be terrible, that was magic.

However, Tyrion was a student of history above all else, and one thing history had taught him was that great and wonderous things were often terrible as well.  Few great kings had done wonderous things without having to also do terrible things along the way.  Respect and fear went hand in hand.

Anyone who said otherwise was a fool, and that was one thing Tyrion Lannister was not.

It was easy enough to see why Maester Aemon spoke of the dragon needing three heads.  Aegon had been respected, Visenya feared, and Rhaenys beloved.  Together they united six of the seven kingdoms of Westeros and brought an age of peace with them, a peace that only _lasted_ however, until the death of both the King and Queen Rhaenys.  With the respect and love gone, only the fear remained, and it wasn’t until the grandson of Aegon and Rhaenys took the throne, Jaehaerys the First, that peace returned to Westeros.

When Targaryens weren’t balanced in temperament, they must-needs be tempered by numbers, and without the tempering influence of her brother and sister, Visenya’s actions led to naught but blood, rebellion, and strife as her son with Aegon, Maegor the Cruel, followed after his half-brother to the throne when Aenys “mysteriously” died after taking council with the Dowager Queen.

Rhaegar and Jaeherys were both examples of more balanced Targaryens, even with one’s melancholy and the other’s wildness, but Viserys was not.  Soft and sweet, he wasn’t a prince made for strife.  Tyrion often thought that Viserys would be best suited married to a kind lord, as those of Old Valyrian or First-Men or Rhoynish blood could often bear children being “two-natured” as the Rhoynish had called the ability or as “changeable as flame” as the Valyrians did.  His cousin Renly Baratheon would likely suit, or perhaps Willas Tyrell.  But the Kingsguard as the King and council seemed to believe?

Foolishness, and seeing only what they wished to see.

Nothing was surer to turn the prince bitter and harsh than being forced into a White Cloak save being turned out onto the streets.

Better to let him have his harp and his songs and a lover than to risk waking what was sure to be the madness of a feral dragon by introducing him to bloodshed and the dregs of humanity.

Magic, just like the Targaryens who carried it in their very veins, could turn, and that was something Tyrion didn’t wish on anyone, let alone his two closest friends, who were as close to him as his brother by blood.

Harry blew out a breath, staring at the rubble and ruins of decades of neglect.

“No, but let’s get going anyway.”  He smiled over at laughing grey eyes.  “Soonest begun, soonest done and all that.”

…

Summerhall’s great hall had been massive, a bright open space filled with gleaming glass arched windows, sparkling floors, and potted plants from Dorne and Lys and the Summer Isles spilling their lush fragrances and vibrant colors from vessels of copper and gold and bronze.

Immense, and an immense _pain_ for Harry and Benjen, as it had fallen through with the wildfire weakening wood and stone alike, especially as much as Aegon V had used, and causing corridors and storage rooms and natural caverns alike to be filled with decades of filth, rubble, and decay.

Neither was in a good mood for days after they’d begun.

Working steadily, in time they’d made their way through the spiraling mess of corridors and storage rooms to the spy’s nook beneath the center of the great hall, where lords, ladies, and spymasters alike had used the vents and airways in the decorative floors and walls to listen to whispers and plots of the Targaryen court when it came to away from the stench of King’s Landing or pass the coldest moons of winter in the warmer southern regions of Westeros.

And it was there, in that little spy’s nook, where a single event would take place that not unlike the death of Aerys the Second, would shape the future of the Known World forever after.

…

Harry would admit, that in hindsight, the day he made the discovery that changed the world, he should _not_ have touched the thing.

It was a simple concept, learned early by most children.

Whether fire, breakables, or anything really when their hands were grimy, from the cradle a constant refrain was “don’t touch.”

Having lived through childhood twice, one would think Harry had learned that lesson by now, especially regarding items of unknown magical nature.

One would be _wrong_.

Evidence in support of Harry’s utter failure to learn the “don’t touch” rule could be found in pensieves and Philosopher’s Stones, Swords of Gryffindor and a dragon freed from Gringotts, Remberalls and Resurrections stones.

Curiosity, like his magic, had been one of the ingrained traits of young Harry Potter, as he was then, that the Dursleys had failed to stamp out, and got him in quite a bit more trouble than his magic ever did, though at least in the case of his unlamented “relatives” Harry learned not to ask questions lest he risk a hiding.

From enchanted magical obstacle courses in first year to bathroom duels in his sixth, Harry was a curious creature.

That said, when he was working alone in the subterranean remnants of the Summerhall great hall, no one expected, let alone him or Benjen who had gone off to get a start on lunch, that there would even _be_ anything to tickle his curiosity, like alone touch when he _really_ should not have.  Working layer by layer, Jaeherys and Benjen had cleared most of the fallout from the tragedy that had taken place above, never clearing or vanishing more than an inch or two at a time for fear of weakening the ground should their magic sink too deep into the cavern floor.  Other than more rocks, dirt, and fungus, there _hadn’t_ been anything of interest.  At least, not _yet_.

A fact that changed as right before he was about to throw in the towel for the morning and hunt down the stew Benjen had spoken about, Harry saw a glisten of _something_ show through the layers of dirt, ash, and rubble he’d been clearing near the far wall of the chamber.

That single glisten might as well have been a magnet, for no sooner had Harry seen it than he was turning back from leaving the chamber and kneeling on the broken tiles that had been laid down in the cavern a hundred years or more before.  With gentle hands, Harry brushed back the dust and dirt, his eyes popping wide and a gasp leaving his lips as the shape became clear.  Ovoid and scaled, burnished in the light of the torches lining the walls, hidden for thirty-two years in the depths of Summerhall laid a dragon egg.

Harry’s Targaryen great-grandfather, Aegon the Fifth, had attempted to hatch seven dragon eggs before and during the great tragedy:

One of red with gold flecks and black whorls;

One of dark grey with silver rivers;

One of mixed gold and silver with veins of fiery colors throughout – red, yellow, and orange;

One of gold with silver swirls and flecks;

One of white with grass-green swirls;

One of ice blue with swirls of twilit navy;

And the last of endless black as dark as ink or a new moon night.

It was this last that had caught Harry’s eye, his gaze long since trained to spot the barest flicker of golden snitch on the sunniest of days or the flare of spellfire that might mean life or death, let alone the habits of a trained knight.  Endless black, Harry thought, gazing down at the glistening shell, was an understatement.  It drank in the light of the room, with only a hint of burnishment to give it away.

A thought lit up behind Harry’s emerald eyes, and with a thought and a wave of his hand, the dirt and ash vanished from around the ink-black egg, revealing what he’d suspected in that moment.

It wasn’t alone.

Looking up at the ceiling of the cavern that he and Benjen had repaired once they’d made enough progress to feel safe lighting torches without setting the refuse ablaze, Harry calculated where in the great hall was above him.  The eggs had to have fallen through and been buried, wildfire consumed all, including dragons but…a dragon shell _wasn’t_ a dragon.  It was harder, thicker even than dragon hide, with protective properties _designed_ to protect the fragile infant until it was ready to hatch.

No, a dragon egg _wasn’t_ a dragon.

And yet…Harry hesitated a long moment before giving into the siren call that tempted him, grasping the deep-black egg and lifting it up to his eyes, turning it in his hands as he stared at it in nothing less than _awe_.

And yet, it felt much the same but somehow also _more_ than the dragons Harry had met in his first life.

Definitely more powerful without a doubt than the poor blinded creature he had helped free from the tunnels of Gringotts, but not as _fierce_ as the Horntail.

Which was fitting he supposed, heaving a sigh and shaking his head as he moved to set the egg back among its brethren until he could return with a sack to carry all seven in, since this wasn’t a dragon, just an egg turned nearly to stone.

Beautiful, and beguiling, but no ferocious creature that could make a man fear with a single gaze and destroy a ship with a breath.

“Just one more remnant.”  He murmured to himself, left hand lingering on the scales of the black egg.  “Of a time long since gone away.”

Rising to his feet once more, he turned away, feeling almost as melancholy in that moment as Rhaegar, padding on slow feet from the cavern to the archway intending to make for his and Benjen’s makeshift camp, the scent of stew teasing him away as little else would have done.

Only to stop and turn once more as he thought…but he couldn’t have, he decided, even as he looked back over his shoulder.

It was impossible after all.

He couldn’t have heard the sound of a crack…could he?

A question that was answered as no sooner had he looked back then the black eye wobbled where he’d set it atop of the white and the blue, another, more definitive, _crack_ echoing through the cavern as he rushed, nearly slipping on the tiles in his haste, back to the pile of eggs.

Just in time as his infernal Potter luck would have it, as the dragon hatchling, who had felt him and _tasted_ him whilst within his shell, gave one last heave of his wings and sent the egg shell cracking and flying to pieces on top of the other eggs, his hissing shriek of triumph deafening in the silence of the cavern as his eyes slit upon revealing nothing less than bright Avada Kedavra green.

With a thought and a command, Harry had his Patronus, still Prongs for all else that had changed about him, galloping off to find Benjen with a message.

In the meantime, Harry stripped of his own shirt, gathering up the dragon hatchling whose scales were as dark and endless black as his shell had been, and cradled him against his bared chest, cleaning off the remains of the egg membranes and cooing softly to the baby dragon he held in his arms, stunned and shocked to his very bones and a single thought running through his mind.

Prophecy, he decided for the thousandth time, was _such_ an annoying bitch.

…

High overhead, seen over most of the Known World, a red star streaked across the sky, lasting only a handful of long minutes, and then was gone once more.


	6. Rebirth

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Five: Rebirth**

“You can’t call her Silverwing.”  Harry repeated himself, with no little exasperation as he watched Benjen coo and fuss over the dark grey hatchling.

Harry, it seemed, wasn’t the only one either drawn to magical items or with a problem keeping his hands to himself.  While the Valyrians of old had told tales of being born of dragons or some sort of dragonkin to explain their control over the great beings of fire and magic, Harry thought it a much simpler explanation than that, given that Benjen hadn’t been able to keep his hands to himself and ended up hatching the grey and silver egg.  An explanation that started and ended with magic, both theirs and the dragons.

Benjen had come running with a blanket and satchel as Harry had asked, only to be struck nearly dumb by the sight of his former godson cuddling an ink-black dragon hatchling on his lap.

Shaking off the shock – or more, putting it on hold until the immediate issue was taken care of, to be revisited later with a skein of wine or barrel of beer – Benjen had come forward with caution, not wanting to test whether the writings were true and dragon hatchlings really _could_ make fire from hatching.  Handing off the blanket to Harry, Benjen had crouched, collecting up the dragon eggshell in the outer pocket of the satchel – such things were excellent potions ingredients after all – and started in on cleaning the other eggs and packing them away as Harry saw to his new friend.  Which was where things went a bit… _odd_.

As a Stark, neither of them had even considered that he might have a dragon hatch for him, hells, at that moment they didn’t even know how Harry had managed it as Jaeherys Targaryen, blood of the dragon.

Magic, it seemed, was the answer.

And magic, both as a wizard in his last life and a Stark in this one, Benjen had in _spades_.

No sooner had he wiped clean the dark grey egg with its silver rivers coursing across the scales, then it shook in his hands, Harry’s head whipping around as he gave an – even Benjen would admit – unmanly shriek of surprise, the black hatchling hissing in what sounded at the time, and Benjen still swore, was laughter.

The grey had broken through a bit more slowly than the black, but break through she had, showing off dark grey scales with solid silver underwings and random silver scales, her eyes the grey of thick smoke.

She was as beautiful and _impossible_ as her fellow hatchling.

Neither Benjen nor Harry were in a rush to assign such titles as brother or sister to either dragon, unknowing as they were of the origins of the eggs Aegon the Fifth had attempted to hatch, with only their instincts telling them of things such as gender, as well as their own preferences, given that most dragons save a few like the famous Balerion, were as changeable as fire in their gender.

Much like Harry was in that way, having been a bearer in the wizarding world and now one again in his second life, though he had no reason to hide it here despite the Faith being disdainful of the inborn trait…but those old bastards disdain almost everything that wasn’t Andal in origin so the North and the Targaryens alike paid them no mind.

“Why not?”  Benjen demanded, wrinkling his nose at Harry over their fire.  The two of them had relocated to fill the bellies of themselves and their dragon hatchlings, each feeding their new companion bits of cooked meat from the stewpot, which were gobbled down with alacrity by the newborns.  “Tell me _you’re_ not planning on naming him Balerion and I’ll damn you for a barefaced liar.”

Harry hunched his shoulders, a blush rising upon his Valyrian-fair skin.

“Hah!”  Benjen crowed – softly, as with full bellies the hatchlings had curled up on their people to sleep.  “Caught!”

“Because.”  Harry continued after Benjen had calmed down.  “Dragons are intelligent, more intelligent than men some Maesters thought.  They should be able to choose their own names.  I’ll _suggest_ Balerion to my black, but I won’t force it.”

Benjen frowned at that, not having considered that angle, thinking of them more along the lines of the trained owls of his first life than the massive creatures that they would grow to be.  In a few weeks they would certainly be large enough to have brains capable of higher thought, if the size of the dragonskulls in the Red Keep’s throne room were any sign.  Neither the grey nor the black seemed stunted at all, as the last green born had been.  And it wouldn’t be unusual for Harry to find a familiar even smarter than the norm, given Hedwig, who if Benjen remembered the story, also chose her own name with Harry supplying options.

“Fine then.”  He sighed, lifting his shoulders.  “We’ll give them options.  In the meantime…”  He drawled arching a brow.  “What are we going to do about Tyrion, let alone: your family?”

Harry grimaced at the reminder.

His family – let alone Westeros and the Known World on the whole – were going to lose their ever-loving minds over this.

Dragons, reborn?

It was the dream of every Targaryen and the nightmare of every maester who taught their ideals of science over magic.

Dragons _were_ magic, as Harry had thought.

More, dragons were _drawn_ to magic and magic to dragons, as this latest fiasco of Harry’s had proven.

“Tell Tyrion the truth.”  Harry said with a sigh, one hand running down the burnished black scales of the hatchling heating up his lap like a mini-furnace.  “The same with Rhaegar.”  He scowled a bit.  “He’s the King.  In the end…it’s his decision to make, not mine, about the rest.”

“Tell Tyrion the truth about what?”  The man in question asked as he came stepping around the archway from the corridor, only to come to a screeching halt at the sight of the breathing bewinged lizards taking up the laps of his best-friends.

“Surprise?”  Harry offered with a weak laugh.

“Somehow.”  Tyrion said after a long moment.  “I know this is your fault Jaeherys.  That said.”  Eyes fever bright locked on green then shot to grey.  “Tell me.  Everything.  Just as soon as you let me pet one.”

“They’re not cats, Tyrion.”  Benjen snorted, even as their friend came over and sat beside him, apparently choosing the grey as the friendlier looking after the black opened one poison-green eye with a draconic glare at the dwarf when he came too near.

“I know that.”  Tyrion huffed, staring avidly between the hatchlings nonetheless.  “Still doesn’t mean I don’t want to pet one.  They’re _dragons_ , Benjen.  I’ve wanted to see a living dragon all my life.”  He sighed a little.  “And they’re just as beautiful as I’ve always imagined them to be.”

…

“Well.”  Tyrion decided once he’d eaten and the circumstances were explained to him – multiple times as he examined them from every angle.  “We’ll have to send a raven to the King as soon as possible.  Or a messenger might be better, one who could deliver a sealed missive directly to the King’s hand.”

“Right, and say what?”  Benjen snorted, scratching his grey under her chin as she hissed in pleasure.  “Found dragons, come quick?”

“No.”  Tyrion leveled a glare at the lummox, the _idiot_ implied in his tone.  “But a missive regarding needing approval for a change of placement or structure should suffice.  Rhaegar may have given Jaeherys free rein, but he would still need to be consulted for a major diversion from existing plans.”

“Rhaegar isn’t going to try and take her away from you, Benjen.”  Harry stared at the other dragon-chosen with soft eyes.  “She _chose_ you.  You.  Instead of all the Targaryens of my line from her birth to her hatching, _you_.  Rhaegar will respect that.”  Harry shifted the black on his lap, trying to get some feeling back in his left leg after having a deceptively-heavy cat-sized fire-breathing (well, more sparks, but still…) dragon laying on it for over an hour.  “Besides which, there’s five more eggs and Rhaegar wasn’t born yet when they were lost.  One might hatch for him or mother or Viserys.”

“Or all three.”  Tyrion noted with an arch of his brows, eyes still rapt on the pair of dragons.

“Or all three.”  Harry tilted his head in agreement with that.  “Or we’ll go to Dragonstone and remove the eggs from the vault there, or search Winterfell for the clutch Vermax might have left there.”

“Silverwing is more likely.”  Benjen finally said, a bit shy about having been so afraid to lose someone he only just met.  He’d never really bonded with a familiar before, not like Harry had.  The feelings he was dealing with now were distinctly foreign, as he’d only felt such kinship to James and Remus, then Lily and Harry before, and his siblings and Harry now.  It was…oddly difficult to reconcile.  “Mushroom the fool’s accounts have been discredited in almost every other way.”

“Just when I think he’s never opened a book in his life.”  Tyrion cracked the joke, relieving the tension that had arisen.  “He proves me wrong.”

“Stuff it, Tyrion.”  Benjen rolled his eyes.  “I _can_ read.  Sat in the same lessons with Maester Aemon the same as you.”

“And yet…”  Tyrion heaved a heavy sigh, shaking his head.  “You so often act otherwise.”

“Who will play messenger?”  Harry asked before the two could start to bicker in earnest.

“One of the workers given a horse for the trip will suffice.”  Tyrion spoke before Benjen could say something asinine.  “Thankfully your wards should keep the hatchlings safe until they’re able to defend themselves.  Jaeherys.”  Tyrion leveled a commanding glance at his prince.  “The missive will need to be in your hand and stamped with your seal.”

Nodding, Harry rose, moving over to campaign desk that he’d appropriated from Rhaegar’s baggage train when his king brother had dumped the duty of restoring Summerhall upon his shoulders – and with the black perched upon his shoulders as he set to work writing the missive and signing it with his seal, the hatchling watching it all with curious eyes, he was glad that he did along with the rest of the furniture that made the underground caverns somewhat livable instead of forcing them into campaign tents until at least the nearby village was complete.

“Where are the other eggs?”  Tyrion asked, Harry just pointing with his quill as Benjen in the last few minutes had become beguiled by his grey’s eyes, speaking to her and thinking up names, listing them for her approval – which to Harry’s amusement, she had already hissed at Silverwing.

Tyrion went over to the satchel, intent on arraying the eggs around the firepit.

Scrolls and tomes differed on whether dragon eggs needed to be kept warm, the black and grey hatching put paid to that idea, but still, they were much too precious to keep stuffed in a simple leather _satchel_ of all things.

Mind made up, Tyrion stopped by his simple pallet, taking up the finely-woven silk throw that his aunt Genna had woven in Lannister red and gold as a gift for his sixteenth nameday and the occasion of him “officially” – and legally – becoming a man, folding it in quarters to make a thick silk pad for the remaining five eggs to rest upon in the light and warmth of the fire.

One by one he lifted them from the rough satchel, two of different gold and silver designs, a white and green, then one in beautiful blues, last he came to the single red egg with its golden flecks and black whorls, holding it and turning it this way and that in the light of the fire as he’d done with them all, hoping – a fool’s hope – that one might shake or crack as his friends had described.

But alas, it seemed not even a creature so great as a dragon would wish to bond with a dwarf.

“Rowena?”  Benjen offered the grey, distracting Tyrion and making Harry huff a laugh as he pressed his seal into the pool of black wax with red flecks.  “Helga?  Lily?”

The grey gave various huffs, snorts, and hisses of dislike to his name offerings.

“Well, intelligent, that’s no doubt.”  Tyrion chuckled a bit, even as he ran his hands over the egg in his lap, not quite able to make himself put it down.  He wasn’t able to give up his fool’s hope _quite_ yet it seemed.  “Who would name a dragon _Helga_ of all things?”

Benjen gave a haughty sniff and continued as Harry and the black came to sit beside him, Harry handing off the sealed missive to Tyrion as he passed the Lannister hovering over the dragon eggs like a nesting dragon over its clutch.

“Maelys?”  Benjen offered anew, watching the grey for any sign of approval.  This name at least wasn’t hissed at by the winged creature.  “Isis?  Inanna?”

At the last, Benjen finally got a coo of pleasure.

“Inanna?”  He asked again, double checking with another coo his answer.  “Inanna it is then.”  He said with no little amount of satisfaction.

“What does it mean?”  Tyrion asked, sure that the word was one from the two’s shared past.

“Lady of the Heavens.”  Benjen told him, Harry muttering _of course it does.  Blacks,_ under his breath.  “And the name of a goddess.”

“Fitting.”  Tyrion agreed as the little grey seemed to preen at his words, a smile cracking his face despite his disappointment over having no dragon companion of his own at the show from the little one.  “Since the Targaryens often named their dragons for the gods of Valyria.  What about your black, Jaeherys?”

“Balerion.”  He said at once, with certainty as the black arched his wings and snapped at Benjen’s snicker over his name.  “He’s Balerion reborn.”

As Tyrion nodded, another smile at the fierce black crossing his face, his smiles weren’t the only thing that cracked.

The red, it seemed, had finally made a decision.

Tyrion would be a dragon rider after all.

…

That night, Harry opened his eyes to a meadow he hadn’t seen but for a handful of moments almost eighteen years before, with a familiar dragon sunning itself a few feet away.

Noticing that he was laying on the ground, as if he’d been transported from his pallet to the in-between, Harry rose slowly to his feet, having no intention of startling the great Balerion the Black Dread into attacking.  Now that he wasn’t shocky from meeting with the spirits of his parents or being recently hit with a Killing Curse, Harry was able to take in just how _massive_ Balerion had been when he died.  Craning his head around to get a view of the dragon’s hindquarters, Harry was forced to squint as they seemed so far away…or not _seemed_ , he realized as Balerion rose who his hind claws and using his foreclaws on his wings turned and faced the young Potter/Targaryen.

Towering over him, with jaws so large that he could well believe them capable of swallowing a mammoth whole, Balerion was almost the length of two football fields laid end to end, with a wingspan to match.

His teeth were indeed as large as swords, making him doubt that any of the great dragon skulls that hung in the Red Keep belonged to Balerion at all, despite the claims of the Targaryens before him.

They were simply too small.

Balerion’s skull would be large enough to take over the dais and the Iron Throne, let alone fit in the great hall to begin with through any of the doors.

Awe and terror in equal measure filled Harry as that great head lowered, in an echo of the gesture from so long ago, and burning red eyes met his own emerald gaze, even knowing that this was most likely a dream, he still felt a measure of fear and more than a measure of his own insignificance in comparison to this great creature.

 _“You’re smarter than you look.”_ A great rumbling voice sounded in Harry’s mind, blasting past his mental shields as if they weren’t even there to begin with.  _“Harry-Jaeherys Potter-Targaryen.”_

“Um, thank you?”  Harry replied, voice wavering.

At least his knees weren’t shaking or buckling… _yet_.

“ _Balerion Reborn.”_ The great voice rasped a chuckle.  _“Your instincts serve you well, when you remember to pay attention to them_.”

With that, Harry snapped into focus, puzzle pieces clicking into place like a key turning in a lock.

“You didn’t just carry me into a new life…did you, Balerion the Black Dread?”

“ _No,”_ the voice outright laughed _.  “No, I did not.  Your clever guide said it well.  I had never attended another lost spirit, nor will I again.  I was waiting.”_

“Waiting for what?”  Harry asked, more than a bit incredulous.  “For me?”

 _“Nothing of the sort, and exactly that all at once.”_ Balerion rumbled, his mental voice enough to make Harry glad that he wasn’t using a _physical_ voice as it was like to deafen him.  “ _Dragons choose.”_

 _“Dragons choose._ ”  Harry echoed, eyes narrowing as he tried to decipher the riddle, ignoring the implication that _his_ Balerion was _the_ Balerion.  That was something to freak out over later, when he wasn’t having a chat with his dragon’s…well, soul he gathered it was.  “That’s why the dragons stopped hatching.”

 _“We can be forced, with the right magics.”_ Balerion told him, shifting on his haunches and taking much of his great weight off of his wings.  “ _The Valyrians knew how, but the knowledge was lost with the Doom.  When the Targaryens stopped treating us as companions and familiars, we stopped choosing them.  You would know of familiars, and the bond, wouldn’t you, Harry-Jaeherys?”_

“Fire and blood.”  Harry whispered, raising his eyes that had fallen with his thoughts back up to meet Balerion’s original red.  He ventured at if he looked, he probably had pitch-black hair in his place.  “Blood magic and pyromancy, a powerful combination.”

 _“Yes.”_ Balerion nodded that great head.  _“More dragons died during the Dance than since the Doom.  Treated us as nothing more than tools of war and beasts of burden.  The last true Rider was Queen Rhaenys.  When she died upon Meraxes, Vhagar and I mourned, as did all dragons.  Now, you have come, Harry of House Targaryen.  A boy of magic and prophecy.  With a familiar bond in your first life that will have you respecting it in your second.  I was not waiting for you, but for one who was worthy.  Your godfather was close, but in the end, he was not for me.”_

 _“_ Silverwing.”  Harry murmured, almost to himself.  “Benjen’s Inanna is Silverwing, who bore him to Westeros.”

Balerion smiled a terrifying smile filled with sword-long teeth and fangs.

 _“Her mate Vermithor has chosen rebirth as well.”_ He informed his rider.  _“Though the Bronze Fury has not yet hatched.  When my physical form can sustain me, I will merge with it.  Until then, we will meet here of a night.  For you have much to learn, young Rider, and pass on to the others of your kin and kind.  Much to learn, indeed…”_

_…_

_Summerhall, Two Moon-Turns Later_

Rhaegar heard the words of a woods-witch that he and his train had passed on the way through the Kingswood to Summerhall run through his mind as he stared in shock, Viserys doing likewise at his side, at the sight that met his eyes in the caverns below the cleared ruins of Summerhall.

 _“Stars don’t fall for men, boy_.”  The woods-witch had cackled at the squires when they had stopped to water their horses at Old Baetha’s cabin in the woods.  She was an institution in the Kingswood, her and all her line had lived there since long before Aegon united six of the seven Kingdoms.  Even the mad Smiling Knight of the Kingswood Brotherhood had known better than to harry or harass Old Baetha or her daughter or granddaughter.  None ever knew who the fathers were of the woods-witches of the Kingswood.  Some said they were visited by the last of the Children of the Forests in the night, others spirits and wraiths and demons.  Rhaegar had always thought that passing knights or noblemen or smallfolk were a more likely cause.  A night with a witch, only half-remembered come the morn.  And no need to explain it to a wife or a lover.  Still and all, there they were and there they remained.  Offering simple salves and poultices, palm-readings and rune-tosses to travelers along with fresh water for both horses and men.  _“A Red Star means one thing: dragons.”_

“ _The Dragons are all gone, have been for centuries.”_   Beric Dondarrion had protested.

 _“Are they?”_ Old Baetha had asked, with a dark chuckle, pointing with her smoking pipe towards the King and his youngest brother.  “ _What do you call them then, but dragons?”_

Given the glistening scales and shining claws of the glorious creatures held in the arms or perched on the shoulders of his brother Jaeherys and his two companions, Rhaegar gave more credence to the knowledge of woods-witches than he had for all his years before.

“They’re the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”  Viserys breathed out, sitting hard on the bench at his back.

The Kingsguard, all save Arthur, who had accompanied them were all left aboveground as the King, Prince Viserys, and Ser Arthur followed Jaeherys down to his makeshift chambers in the caverns.

Arthur, who was watching the three hatchlings with wide eyes and one hand resting instinctively on the hilt of Dawn.

“And the most impossible.”  Arthur commented after shaking his head in an attempt to free his thoughts loose of the endless spiral of shock they’d fallen into.  He’d thought the clearing above had been the reason for the trip, leaving behind both Dowager Queen Rhaella and Queen Lyanna with the heirs and princesses.  A quick inspection, nothing more.  Never in all his life would he have suspected dragons.

Who would?

They’d been gone for over a century after all.

“How?”  Was all Rhaegar asked, as he moved to sit beside Jaeherys at the other’s gesture, the black hatchling moving over to his lap and allowing him to inspect and pet him with a fearlessness that had Rhaegar arching a brow.

“Would you believe?”  Harry chuckled a bit ruefully.  “It was all a bit of an accident…”

…

Between the Three Terrors, they explained the happenstance that led to each having a dragon hatch for them, Rhaegar and Viserys splitting their attention between the spoken words and the hatchlings that seemed to approve of them somewhat as the black was only the first to clamber all over the King, Viserys moving from his bench to the ground and the fifteen year old squire and prince finding himself pounced upon by Tyrion’s Vaiva with her red scales with patterns of black and gold, while Balerion and Inanna moved over Rhaegar before Balerion took flight and inspected Arthur in turn.

“Curious little ones, aren’t they?”  Rhaegar commented, a soft look on his face as he ran one long-fingered hand down the side of Inanna’s grey and speckled silver neck, the hatchling hissing in pleasure.

“More intelligent than a man once adult.”  Harry told them.  “They chose to stop hatching when the Valyrians first and Targaryens after forgot that before.  It’ll be up to us to ensure that it’s never forgotten again.”

“This bond, you have.”  Viserys asked, a bit hesitantly even as he struggled to keep his eyes from darting over to the burnished and gleaming dragon eggs in their silk-lined basket beside the fire.  “What’s it like?”

Rhaegar lifted his head from Inanna at that, focusing once more on his younger brother and Jaeherys’s companions.

“From what I can tell.”  Tyrion answered after exchanging glances between his fellow terrors.  “Mine is weaker with Vaiva than Benjen or Jaeherys’s with Inanna or Balerion.  Still strong, I still _know_ her moods and needs and wants, but not as clearly as the others.”  He smiled, shrugging it off.  The bond existed and that was enough for him.  “Sometimes Benjen and Harry are eerily in sync with their familiars.”

“Queen Rhaenys and Meraxes were said to have _screamed_ as one when Meraxes was struck down at the Hellholt.”  Rhaegar said, frowning in deep thought.  “She was closer to Meraxes than Aegon was Balerion or Visenya Vhagar, spent more time in the air than upon the ground.”

“The last true dragonrider.”  Harry offered, without going into just _how_ connected he was to Balerion or he suspected Benjen might become to Inanna.

“Is it your magic?”  Rhaegar pinned his brother with an incisive look.  “Is that the difference?”

“Visenya was said to be a sorceress.”  Viserys reminded his older brother with a grimace.  “Which has never been said of Rhaenys.  I doubt it’s that simple.”

“Magic?”  Harry asked a bit weakly, eyes flicking between his brothers and Arthur, the latter of whom gave a soft snort and rolled his eyes at the middle son of Aerys the Mad.

“Please, brother.”  Viserys wrinkled his nose at Jaeherys.  “None of us are fools.”

“Mother and I thought it best to make no mention of it.”  Rhaegar told him when it seemed the shock wasn’t wearing off of Jaeherys over having his great secret bandied – and bantered – about so casually, even in a select and trustworthy company.  “The Kingsguard noticed it first.  Your ability to be where you couldn’t possibly be.  Then your _knowing_ , that at times seemed…otherworldly.”  Rhaegar smirked a little when Jaeherys and Benjen both began to pout a little.  “Neither of you are as good at subterfuge as you think you are, though it was only because the Kingsguard kept such a close watch on us all after our father’s death that you were found out.  And with the way the Citadel and Faith are about magic…well.”  Rhaegar shrugged.  “You both seemed to have it well in hand.”

“Partly.”  Harry said at last, as Benjen continued to mutter and pout to a hissy-laughing Inanna who had rejoined her person when she’d felt his disquiet.  “It’s partly magic.  From what I can tell and Balerion has imparted, magic is required for the bond and the creation of a true pair.  Other magics can force a hatching, but one created through organic choice will always be stronger.”

“I have Andal corruption in my line.”  Tyrion told them with a shrug.  “Not as great as say House Tyrell or Hightower, but intermarriage nonetheless.  Andals feared magic nearly as much as dragons, and had a loathing of it that nearly equaled that of slavery.  Benjen being from the North and the Targaryens from Valyria.”  He tilted his head towards the three king and princes.  “Have a much richer wealth of magical heritage than I, which is also likely why it took Vaiva longer to decide upon me than the near-instant choice both Balerion and Inanna made in their riders.”

“Brilliant.”  Viserys breathed, visibly _itching_ to get his hands on the remaining unhatched dragon eggs.

“It is.”  Harry beamed at his brothers.  “And problematic.”

“Not everyone is going to accept the return of the dragons, your grace.”  Arthur agreed with that at once, folding his arms over his armored chest plate.  “Might even try to kill or capture them.”

The three hatchlings gave vicious hisses at that, proving once more just how smart they really were.

Rhaegar stared at them bemused for a long moment, then spoke.

“He’s right, this must be done carefully.”  He scratched at his jaw with one hand.  “How long until a hatchling is fully fledged and able to defend itself?”

“Depends.”  Harry told him with a quirk of his mouth.  “They grow at different rates.”

Which was easy to see for themselves, as despite all hatching on the same day and at near the same size, Balerion was already outpacing the others, with Inanna a bit smaller than Vaiva.

“A year, maybe more maybe less.”  Tyrion offered, eyeing the hatchling.  “Not able to bear a rider for likely a year after that, also depending on the rate of growth and maturation of their wings.”

“You’re expected to spend at least another three years here at Summerhall managing the rebuilding.”  Rhaegar spoke his thoughts out loud, working through the issue at the same time.  “It wouldn’t draw attention if Viserys stayed now, and mother came to visit in a few turns to give visit her sons and give a woman’s point of view on the project.  That would be two more dragons reaching maturation – hopefully – before you three are expected back in the public eye.”  He sighed, staring in a mixture of yearning and mourning at the burnished eggs.  “As much as it pains me, until winter comes and Summerhall is restored, I do not see how I would manage such a wonderous gift as bonding a dragon.”

“Viserys and mother aren’t an issue.”  Jaeherys said.  “But, if Summerhall is completed on schedule, you could come and stay with a limited train for a period over the coming winter.  That _is_ what Summerhall was built for after all.  Then perhaps come spring we could have a grand tourney and introduce the realm to the rebirth of House Targaryen and our dragons.”

“That just might work.”  Arthur told Rhaegar, as anyone with eyes could see how much he desired a dragon-bond of his own.  “The Small council is used to you and the royal family spending several turns at a time at Dragonstone after all.  It’s not without precedent.”

“Then we’ve an accord.”  Rhaegar gave a smile to rival the sun for brilliancy as Viserys leapt to his feet with an ecstatic grin, rushing over to the dragon eggs and hovering for long moments until Jaeherys, Balerion wrapped around his neck, went over to their youngest brother’s side and spoke softly to him.

“This isn’t a test, Viserys.”  Harry told him, taking one long-fingered hand in his own, though Harry’s had notably more calluses, lowering them and letting his brother’s fingertips just _dust_ over the gleaming scaled shells.  “There is no right or wrong.  Each dragon is different, and so is each rider.  If one of these doesn’t choose you, another might, perhaps from the Shadow Lands beyond Asshai or from the vaults at Dragonstone.  There is magic in our blood.  King’s blood and old magic.  Dragon magic.  Let them taste it, and taste you.”

Harry sat back, releasing his brother’s hand, and watched, Balerion with him, as Viserys firmed his resolve and this time let his hand rest on each egg in turn, holding it there for long moments before moving onto the next when there was no reaction.

Two of the four remaining had been tested this way when Viserys came to the gleaming white egg with its green swirls and felt it warm impossibly under his hand, without the showy dramatics he’d been told of Balerion’s hatching, or that of Vaiva or Inanna.

Just a steady, comforting warmth.

Taking a deep breath, Viserys lifted the egg from its bed alongside its fellows, and gave gasping, startled laugh when it split right down the middle.

So much for no dramatics.

Syrexian made their entrance to the world amid laughter and firelight, in the hands of their chosen rider.

…


	7. Rhaella

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

_Author’s note: One of Rhaella’s internal monologues paraphrases this quote:_

_“Let no one think of me that I am humble or weak or passive; let them understand I am of a different kind: dangerous to my enemies, loyal to my friends. To such a life glory belongs.”_

_― Euripides, Medea_

**Chapter Six: Rhaella**

It didn’t take long for Viserys to learn just what his older brother had meant about each dragon being different, as well as Tyrion’s words about knowing their moods and wants and needs.  He’d had the idea that it would be somewhat like raising a dog from a pup, even with what he’d been told about the intelligence of dragons, especially once matured.  He’d never been more wrong about anything in his _life_.

Syrexian, and the bond, were so much _more_ than anything he’d ever known.

It was eerie at times with how he would mirror Syrexian and Syrexian him, a trait that Jaeherys had assured him in time would calm as they grew used to the bond and having the _feeling_ of another, even if not actual thoughts, in their minds.

Viserys both believed him – as he could see that there were times when the moods of the other dragons and their chosen weren’t as in sync as Viserys’s were with Syrexian – and didn’t.  Perhaps, he thought, it might be that way for some riders and dragons.  Jaeherys and Balerion for example were very much companions and friends, the two often pouncing on one another or Balerion waiting for an opportune moment to steal part of Jaeherys’s meal, while Tyrion and Vaiva were almost like a father with his daughter so indulgent was he with her, while Benjen and Inanna landed somewhere in between friendly and familial.  Viserys and Syrexian were different, which might be due to Viserys being younger.

Had he asked his brother, Jaeherys would have told him it had more to do with Syrexian being a young dragon soul, a newborn, like Vaiva was for the differences between the partnership he had with Balerion and the almost twin-bond that Viserys had with his dragon, in addition to the age of Viserys.

Still, it was a source of amusement to Jaeherys as the year clicked on and the dragons grew, watching how instinctively Syrexian and Viserys often mirrored each other, to the point that the other dragon-chosen had started using Syrexian as a barometer for Viserys’s mood, as while a human could and often _would_ conceal their moods and emotions, dragons never did, much to Viserys’s disgruntlement when he figured out how the Three Terrors were able to so easily read him.

Viserys was right – and not – in his estimation of his age having some to do with the bond between him and Syrexian as he tried to compare it to that of the others, having with, as wasn’t uncommon in youth, failed to take into account the various personalities of both the dragons and their chosen as well as their years.

Tyrion had ever been doting and a champion of the female sex, from his aunts and cousins to his nieces to the daughters of the lowest smallfolk.  To wit: Tyrion Lannister loved nothing so much as he did feminine company in all its forms.  That his Vaiva preferred feminine address allowed her much leniency and adoration that while still might have been bestowed upon a male dragon or one who preferred to switch between the sexes, or remain unsexed at that, simply eased a way into his soft heart that was most often protected by his sharp tongue.

Both were of similar in age to Viserys and Syrexian, and without the shadows and hurts and triumphs alike that came with being one of the reborn as the other two current pairs of dragons and chose were, though granted both Balerion and Inanna had a great many more years of life to bring to bear in their rebirth than their chosen.  A dragon’s life was simpler in many ways and concerns than that of a human, let alone a wizard.  Unless one bonded closely with a chosen rider, a hatchling, or a mate, it wasn’t one that lent itself overmuch to ideas of grief or loss, nor concerns of politics and wars outside their own participation in the latter.  In that way, Inanna was as good a match for Benjen as Balerion was for Harry, given that while the former pair had deeper cause of grief in their first lives, having lost a lover or mate in addition to other ills, the latter knew more of the trials placed upon a being of power, and the things done in the name of “good” that could haunt even a dragon in his rest.

Balerion had lived long enough to see the greatness of Valyria and the once flourishing race of dragon-kind as well as the Doom and the downfall of dragons in the Known World.

In their shared dreamings, before Balerion eventually was able to fully bond his consciousness with his new form at six-turns old, Balerion told Harry that he’d chosen both Harry for the Targaryens of all options he’d seen in his years in the in-between and to return himself because of a single act Harry had performed in his first life that gave the great dragon, the largest ever known to live in the Known World and named for one of the old gods, a most dangerous gift: _hope_.

Thrice, Balerion told Harry, _thrice_ Harry had come up against the dragons of his world: once at hatching, once in their prime, and once at their end.  Thrice Harry had treated them with both the respect and compassion deserved in each case.  But those actions weren’t why Balerion decided that Harry was for the Targaryens and Balerion for Harry, no.

It was a different act altogether.

One that was a shock for Harry to hear.

He’d not done it for accolades or rewards, to be deemed worthy of anyone or anything.

He’d done it to survive.

That as broken and beaten as he’d been, perched on the ledge of death, and _still_ he’d had enough instinct and wit to take the fang of a great Basilisk Queen, one he’d slain, and used it to defeat his enemy against all odds, _that_ had impressed Balerion.

Not his compassion.

Not his power or his mercy.

Not anything else that had been made much of him possessing but a single thing:

_Drive._

Taken alone, it wouldn’t have been enough, many were those who when pushed back against a wall would lash out in any attempt at all to survive.

But together with his thrice treating dragon kind with respect and honor and compassion?

That was enough for Balerion when the time came to either choose a soul to send on to Westeros or to give up on his kind entirely.

Silverwing could make much of her brave soul, who had died fighting to save Harry and whatever else it was she saw in Sirius Black to take him hence.

But for Balerion, nothing less than one to equal the last rider he knew to be true to dragon-kind, his own rider’s sister-wife Rhaenys, would do.

Respect, power, compassion, mercy, _drive_ , and so much more had the last true chosen of House Targaryen.

Balerion mourned her as deeply as his rider had, they had rampaged against Dorne each as fiercely as the other in recompense against the sand-dwellers for her loss.

After all, to be a true chosen was no little thing.

It was something that even his wild kin that he felt in the far east, farther than any dragon of his line had ever flown before, would honor.

Now he merely had to wait and see what _his_ rider would do with the drive that once led him to survive a madman long enough to attain the honor of rebirth.

If Balerion knew anything of humans, it should at the least, be most entertaining.

…

_Valley of Summerhall, Eleventh Moon of 291 AC_

The two hundred and ninety-first year since Aegon’s conquering had nearly come to a close before the Dowager Queen Rhaella was able to make a journey to the Red Mountains and the valley of Summerhall to see her younger boys.  Lyanna had more than her hands full with four children, and Rhaella was ever-present in the Small-Council chambers to assist her son and King as much as she was in the nursery to help and play with her grandchildren.  At first, Rhaella hadn’t been certain she much _liked_ the match her eldest had made, though she could agree it was a wise one.  And both, in an ironic twist which even she could enjoy, for the same reason.

Never before had the Starks and the Targaryens wed.

And yet, it had been promised over one hundred and fifty years before Rhaegar took Lyanna Stark to wife that a princess of the Targaryen line would wed into the House of Stark in the pact of Ice and Fire during the Dance of Dragons.

House Stark was pleased to see the pact finally honored by the Iron Throne, and even if Rhaella did not care for Rickard Stark, his daughter was of a personality and verve that helped lighten her melancholy son’s day and brought joy to the Red Keep.

Rhaella would have loved her for that alone, even had she not been a spirited and intelligent woman who gave Rhaella four grandchildren in the space of six years.

And who knew?

Daenerys was only a handful of namedays old, Lyanna could very well add to that count before her childbearing years were through.

Still, games of court and her grandchildren aside, Rhaella mourned that her younger sons were so often away this past year.

It wasn’t unheard-of for Jaeherys to spend turns at a time in the keeps and castles of his closest friends, training under the master-at-arms and his bright nature engraining a love of the monarchy back into the nobility, gentry, and smallfolk alike, but for Viserys to be gone so long from the Red Keep _was_ odd.

Her boys – all three of them – were keeping something from her or she was a grumpkin.

That only question was: what?

It was in search of that question that Rhaella had made arrangements with her eldest to be away from the Red Keep for some time under the guise of visiting her cousin and his wife, her friend Cassana, at Storm’s End.  Prince Lewyn of the Kingsguard had agreed to escort her and stay at her side, perhaps, depending on what she found at Summerhall, being able to take a furlough and visit his family in Dorne while she whiled away a few turns or so with either her cousins as she’d told Rhaegar, or her sons in whatever plot they’d hatched between them.

Little did she know, that “hatched” was precisely the correct term to use in the case of what was keeping her sons from the Red Keep.

…

In the years of her husband’s reign, and even the early years of Rhaegar’s, travelling without a large retinue of knights and servants would have been impossible on ground of safety if naught else.

Thankfully for Rhaella’s sanity, those years were gone, and the eleven-day trip from the Red Keep to the valley of Summerhall was made with as little fuss as possible, given that while she’d been kept locked-away in the Maidenvault for much of the latter years of her marriage, Rhaella had since regained her seat on a horse and her active nature.  Gone was a retiring ghost of a woman, worn down from more stillbirths and miscarriages than any woman should have had to endure and her husband’s suspicions, and in her place had bloomed a woman of Valyrian-steel spine who had survived the crucible of her forging and come out better for it on the other end.  Not that she would wish to endure what she had.  But she _had_ endured it nonetheless, and gained three strong sons and a place in the world of her own making from it.

She adored her sons, and they her, and with the family they were from it allowed Rhaella a latitude that a widow of still childbearing years might not have had in another great house.

Rhaegar granted her whatever she wished, Jaeherys brought her tokens and much laughter at his antics, and Viserys’s smiles and songs lightened her heart long before Rhaegar gave her grandchildren to spoil.

Still and all, Rhaella was yet to see her fiftieth nameday and had much of life left to enjoy.

So when at her bidding her limited train of servants continued onto Storm’s End when she decided “on the spur of the moment” as she wrote to her son the King in the raven she sent him so he would not worry, leaving her with only Prince Lewyn, her closest handmaid, and a few household knights for company, her bidding was obeyed.

Without the baggage cart and the rest of her attendants, they made good time.

To the point, that when she found her middle son Jaeherys in the midst of using his magics to restore what she thought was the kitchens of Summerhall, she had clearly beaten Rhaegar’s raven of warning.

Not that his magics were what gave it away, oh no.

But rather the black dragon, a fledgling the size of a boarhound, who pounced from above when Jaeherys wasn’t looking, _did_ seem to point to her having caught her son and his companions unprepared.

That said, Rhaella herself wasn’t quite prepared for that number to have grown by four.

Four dragons, that was.

She sighed, not even that surprised at the things her Harry stumbled into anymore as a distinct issue of wanting to adopt a direwolf pup – who she believed was now the companion of Brandon Stark at Winterfell – rose to her mind at the looks of varying shock, surprise, dismay, and guilt crossed the faces of her younger sons, Benjen and Tyrion – who might as well be her sons at this point.

Not surprised, no.

But glad that she had left her handmaid and the knights in the village and had only been accompanied by Prince Lewyn…who if she wasn’t mistaken after a glance at his bland face, wasn’t as surprised as either of them should be.

Well.

That answered that.

Jaeherys had _somehow_ , and you better believe she would be getting an answer, found or hatched dragons, and her other sons were well aware of said dragons.

“Mother…”  Viserys began to speak, always the first to crack under her implacable stare, only to be cut off when she raised an imperious hand.

“Do you have wine?”  She directed the question at Tyrion, then rephrased it a moment later.  Of course they did.  It was whether it was of a vintage she wanted to consume was the question.  “ _Good_ wine?”

“Yes, your grace.”  Tyrion answered, already turning and trotting off, one of the dragons at his heels to fetch said wine.

“Explanations can wait.”  Rhaella decided, _ordered_ , the boys.  “Until I’ve braced myself.  I have a feeling I’m going to need it.”

“Yes, your grace.”  “Yes, mum…”

…

Explanations were rendered and wine was had before Rhaella found herself wandering through the restoration of Summerhall with her middle son at her side, pointing out this or that he’d changed from the original design, with his, as Jaeherys had called him, familiar Balerion either flying over their heads or alighting and watching them from the unfinished walls.

From what Rhaella could tell, Jaeherys had either changed the design of Summerhall upon finding and bonding with Balerion, or had always planned for dragons to come again, as the eight-turn dragon fit easily through even the most narrow of the corridors – roofless or not – and would for some time.  She sighed to herself as he rambled on about his magic and how he was using it along with Benjen.  Now that his secret wasn’t _quite_ as secret, to him at least, he was nearly burbling over with information, information that she had no earthly idea regarding its origins as it failed to align with the little she knew about the subject.

Magic, she had had cause to discover after the birth of her second son, was one area where the Citadel failed in their much-vaunted knowledge, leaving her with only the few surviving scrolls and tomes that made it to the shores of Westeros along with traders, Valyrians, or the Rhoynar, and weren’t in turn destroyed by the Andals.

Her son was powerful, that she had always known, and destined for great things.

Perhaps even greater than his older brother, between his magic and now returning the dragons to their line.

It only made her fear all the more for him.

Jaeherys had ever had a good heart.

And good hearts of boys, she’d had cause to learn in her life, rarely survived in the breasts of great men.

Still, her son was rarer yet, a magic-wielding son of House Targaryen, Dragonborn and able to bear children, surviving assassination attempts from his cradle and making friends of great houses who’d been cordial rivals if not all-out enemies for centuries.

Perhaps his good heart would survive to give her great son the balm of a merciful or forgiving nature to run alongside the internal flames that burn hot in his heart and mind.

She rather doubted it.

Jaeherys was a different sort of Targaryen than most that had come before him, and yet she recognized in him traits that had long brought glory to their House.  Dangerous to his enemies, loyal to his friends.  Neither weak nor passive, he was of a different ilk than his brothers or his father or his grandfather.

What she feared in the night alone with her thoughts, wasn’t what her son might do or become along the path to finding his own place in the sun away from the silver light of his older brother, but the cost to himself.

Greatness might inspire legends and tales that never die, but few great men in her readings and experience were ever _happy_ men.

And happiness was all she’d ever wanted for her children, since she was enough herself to want anything.

Rhaegar had found his with his Lyanna and their children, already she saw seeds of it in Viserys’s relationship with his Syrexian and his companions from his squire days.

But there was a discontent in Jaeherys that she had never understood the origins of, though Cassana and Barristan and Lewyn all counseled that it wasn’t unknown for a middle son to be such a way.

As he smiled up at Balerion and pointed out the corridors he’d had widened or the safety measures he’d designed with Tyrion and Benjen to protect his family and their reborn dragons, she thought she saw the beginnings of the man he would someday become, and while she still felt trepidation over other paths he might take, she at least had the solace with Balerion’s companionship that he wouldn’t take it alone.

“You’ve done well here, my son.”  Rhaella spoke after Jaeherys at last ran out of words.  “How long until the palace is completed?”

“The hard part was clearing it.”  Harry admitted, nibbling a bit at his lower lip as his eyes narrowed on one far wall that was missing the glass windows but otherwise was completed and in place, set into the foundations and grounded with magic.  “Though the smallfolk appreciated the coin and the stone both, with the coming winter.  Another few turns will have the village complete and ready for occupancy, a few more and the palace will be complete and need only the finishing touches before furnishing and laying in supplies.”

Rhaella nodded, impressed at the efficacy of the magic her son and Benjen were able to bring to bear, even with the distraction of raising and training dragons – or being trained _by_ them as she thought might be some of the case with Balerion and Jaeherys, the latter passing along what he learned to his friends and brothers.

It was a common thing, when dealing with great creatures such as dragons and direwolves, to learn from them as much as they learn from you.

Which was perhaps why such creatures took companionship with men only rarely.

Few men, in Rhaella’s experience, were open to learning from someone or some _thing_ they saw as lesser than themselves.

Though calling a dragon _lesser_ took a conceit that few possess.

“Rhaegar has spoken of a winter remove to Summerhall, once it is completed.”  Rhaella commented.  “As the realm tends to behave itself – for the most part – during the cold months.”  Only a fool goes to war with the snows on the ground after all and were more concerned with living through the year or more before food could once more be easily hunted or grown.  “I imagine he plans to attempt to hatch a dragon for himself at that time.”

“That is the plan.”  Jaeherys agreed with a quirk of his lips.  “They choose us, not us them, but I have a hard time believing that myself or Viserys could be found worthy and Rhaegar wanting.  He is the best of us.”

“Your brother is a great man and a good king.”  Rhaella nodded, then tilted her head arching a brow.  “But whether he is the best of you will be a decision for historians and maesters to debate, not your mother.  I love all my sons, no matter the choices you make or the things you achieve.”  That said, she came back to her point.  “Will he have the dragonpit rebuilt?”

Harry growled a bit under his breath as Balerion gave a hiss and narrowed his poison-green eyes, taking wing and landing to sit next to his wizard where the two had at last taken a seat in an external courtyard bench that Benjen had transfigured from stone.

The bones and framework of the palace were there, they just needed filling in.

Rhaella gave a thoughtful hum under her breath at the response her question received from her son and his scaled companion.

“Dragons aren’t meant to wear chains or be locked away mother,” Harry told her, passion lighting his voice and his eyes.  “Anymore than men are.  That place was the beginning of the end of our line.  I will never consent to rebuilt it and if my brother does he’s a fool.”

And not worthy to be chosen, though he kept that thought behind his teeth, knowing that his mother was as much a dragoness in her defense of them to each other as she was to the Small Council or the nobles who might try and set them against each other in their games.

Balerion sent a wave of approval through their bond at the thought.  It was no less than any dragon would expect from a mother; let alone one of a line that had spawned a new line of dragon riders.

“The Red Keep isn’t made to house dragons, my son.”  Rhaella chided him a bit in tone if not word for his words.  “And if the bond is as it seems to me from watching you and your Balerion or the other pairs, Rhaegar won’t allow himself to be separated from his hatchling if he is chosen.  It needs sorting, Jaeherys.”

Harry couldn’t deny the logic of that, as while Valyrian strongholds that were still used like Dragonstone had been built with dragons in mind, Westerosi castles were not, with Summerhall being an exception and even it needing improvements to be truly suitable.

“I’ll think on it.”  Harry promised her, which he rather thought was the point of her question to begin with.  “Between myself and my companions, we should be able to find a solution before Rhaegar arrives.”

Rhaella leaned over and gave him a kiss upon his brow.  “That is all I ask, my son.”  Rising, she moved to Balerion’s side and leaned down, showing no fear in the face of a creature that was more than grown enough to set her aflame or rend her limb from limb.  “Now.”  She decided.  “I think it’s time I saw the remaining dragon eggs for myself, don’t you think, Balerion?”

The great black dragon could only snort in agreement before taking wing and leading the way back to the entrance to the caverns – or at least _one_ of the entrances – as Harry likewise rose to his feet and offered his mother his arm to escort her down.

They hadn’t moved the eggs since Tyrion had placed them before the firepit in their makeshift quarters.

Nor would they.

Dragon eggs, even when thought turned to stone and lifeless, were worth a fortune.

One that had proven they could and _would_ hatch for a rider?

No, they warded their chambers as tight as they could, even with the existing wards over the palace grounds.  Rhaella and Lewyn both had Targaryen blood, though Lewyn’s was much removed.  And magic with it, making them easily able to walk right through the anti-muggle wards.  Not that Harry would try and keep his family away but…it would have made things a bit easier if he had.

Still and all, Rhaella was a Targaryen, and a woman-grown.

As such, Jaeherys would never even _think_ to try and keep her from attempting the eggs as he would his nieces and nephews.

Viserys was even a bit young for Harry’s preference, as his near twin-bond with Syrexian gave credence to.  In the end, it would be up to Rhaegar and the dragons themselves to make the decision.  But still…Harry would be more comfortable with others only attempting the eggs once they’d reached a certain level of growth and maturity.

Though when he put it that way…his own preference would have probably excluded both himself and Benjen for quite a few years to come…

“ _Your mother is an impressive human.”_ Balerion rumbled in Harry’s mind as he led the way to the waiting eggs, already certain that Rhaella would be chosen.

 _“My mother survived Aerys the Mad King, and raised two sons to be chosen by dragons as riders, and a third who’s the best King Westeros has had in decades.”_ Harry replied with an internal snort.  _“Impressive is a bit of an understatement Balerion.  Who do you think will choose her?”_

 _“One of the two golds, most likely.”_ Balerion told him after a long moment of thought.  While dragons weren’t fully conscious in the egg, they still had personalities and thoughts that were visible to their kin.  _“The blue is wilder than would suit even a Targaryen.”_

_“Lyanna then?  Or one of Rhaegar’s children?”_

_“Only time – and the blue – will tell.”_

…

And it did.

Balerion, to no shock from his companion, was right, as the gold and silver egg hatched to reveal golden eyes that looked up at Rhaella’s purple with nothing less than respect mixed with adoration.

Named Zareen by the dowager queen, Rhaella settled in to learning her new companion and the bond, while helping Tyrion manage the restorations and lay in supplies for the sure-to-come occupancy of Summerhall and the neighboring village.

Cassana was a bit put out with her old friend when Rhaella’s plans changed so drastically, but being a mother of stubborn sons herself, understood the necessity of a well-planned ambush upon them, sending along Rhaella’s guards and servants, who took up lodging in the village while Rhaella herself stayed with her sons – born and adopted – along with Lewyn and the dragons at Summerhall.

With her arrival and stay, a bit of pressure was brought to bear on Harry and Benjen to focus more on finishing the restoration instead of training Viserys and Syrexian, a task that Rhaella for all that she was the newest chosen, took well in hand.

Dragons grew at differing rates, and Zareen had a delicacy of wings, head, and tail that spoke of a female much like Vaiva and Inanna, while Balerion was a big brute who grew at an alarming rate, much faster than the remaining texts on the original Balerion implied.  Syrexian fell somewhere in-between, which suited Viserys just as well, as thus far his companion had given no indication of preferring one gender over another as the other hatchlings – and fledgling in the case of the ever-growing Balerion – had.  By the time Rhaella arrived and Zareen hatched at the same small-cat size as the rest once had, Balerion was almost the size of a grown man when he extended his hindlegs to launch into the air from nose to hind-claws.  His tail extended another two feet behind his claws, making him longer than a man and about the length of a long-spear.

He was growing, and quickly, to the eyes of the others.

To Harry, Balerion was just trying to reach his former “Black Dread” mass as fast as possible, the gluttonous, prideful fiend that he was.

Not that Harry blamed him for it.

There was something distinctly humbling in going from being an adult to the size of a babe once more, as both of them had had cause to experience through their rebirth.

Harry had had to suck it up and live with it, even now not yet fully grown though larger than he’d ever been during his first life.

Balerion did not, and when Harry could spare the magic would pull on their bond to supplement his natural growth, finding himself often with an empty pit of a stomach in response as his body tried to catch up with the demands of his mind and soul.

The Small Council was likely baffled over the increased expense in food stuffs.

Harry at least had faith in Rhaegar to keep the livestock coming despite any objections since Balerion could only hunt at night with the others lest they be seen, and all knew to stay well away from livestock – though it grated at the dragons to have their hunting so constricted.  The dragons were Harry’s foremost concern.  That didn’t mean he’d forgotten his other responsibilities as a Prince of Westeros, and with winter coming he wouldn’t approve of the dragons eating the animals that would keep the nearby smallfolk from starving during the leanest hunting and farming season.

And should he ever have forgotten, Rhaella was there to remind him with a look and a soft word.

With Rhaella there as a constant reminder of the outside world, Summerhall came along, set to be finished in time for the royal family to take up residence before the first snows reached King’s Landing.

Which only left a single concern: how to keep word of the dragons from reaching every corner of the Known World before Balerion at the least was large enough to remind those of Westeros and beyond just _why_ they had once filled hearts and minds with a quagmire of terror and awe.

It was Lewyn in the end that lifted these concerns with a laugh.

“Worried about whether that big bastard won’t be _big enough_?”  The prince from Dorne snorted, shaking his head as he stared at the ink-black dragon that in the two-turns he and the Dowager Queen had been at Summerhall never seemed to stop growing, eating, and keeping the others in line – including Jaeherys.  “Please.”  He rolled his eyes.  “By the time palace is finished, I’ll eat my boots if he’s not big enough for Jaeherys to ride.  Even the mere _presence_ of Balerion, let alone the rest, will be enough of a threat to keep the servants quiet until the King is ready to announce them.  Worry about other concerns.  Like how you’re going to feed seven of the fiends once the King arrives and hatches another, with the last likely choosing one of the princes or princesses for its own.”

Sharing a rueful glance with Tyrion, Harry had to shrug at that.

The Dornishman had a point after all.


	8. Winter

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Seven: Winter**

_Summerhall, Second Moon-Turn, 293 AC_

It wasn’t unknown for a King to winter away from King’s Landing, managing the realm via raven and the Small Council, but such a thing hadn’t occurred since the reign of Rhaegar’s great-grandfather – at least, other than from the close holding of Dragonstone.

Summerhall, in comparison, was at least ten days’ ride with good roads and fine horses.

When dealing with a baggage train, young children, and a newly with-child Queen, the likelihood of King Rhaegar calling for a decampment from Summerhall until the spring thaw was faint at best.

And that was before his household arrived and saw what had occurred in the Red Mountains and the Valley of Summerhall over the last few years.

Summerhall had been built as a leisure palace, a place of rest and respite for House Targaryen, and often held by a younger son of the King who had no wish to serve the realm as a maester, septon, or knight of the Kingsguard or Night’s Watch.  As such it had been a place more concerned with beauty than strategy.  Jaeherys, somehow to the eyes of both his family and his brother’s vast retinue and household, had managed both.

The palace _soared_ from the high hill selected for the original sight, there was no other way to describe it.

It didn’t rise above the clouds as the Eyrie did, but it did seem to almost touch the sky from the valley below looking up upon it.  Built of soft beige stone imported from Dorne, with touches of a blush pink native – but rare – to the Storm Lands, Prince Jaeherys had taken the original design of Summerhall’s arched windows and graceful columns and turned it into sweeping towers of gleaming glass and elegant stonework.  It was beautiful, yes, of that there could be no debate, and the gardens were just as vast as before, the grounds just as pleasurable to look upon or while away time within, but more importantly to approving eyes such as the Targaryen master-at-arms Ned Stark and the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard Gerold Hightower, it was truly _defensible_ in more than position.

Summerhall hadn’t originally boasted a curtain wall for one, a lack which Prince Jaeherys had remedied with solid stone walls over six feet thick – even if they were fancifully carved thanks to artisans from Lys – while more than one tower appeared to only be accessible from the underground tunnels or from the air.

Harry had kept to his word and plan, remaking it a place of pleasure but also of safety for his family.

The scale of the palace was surprising – at first.

Corridors and stairways were vast, the ceilings soared, and the archways leading to the terraces required more than the seven knights of the Kingsguard standing shoulder to shoulder to fully block.

Then the true purpose behind Prince Jaeherys’s design was revealed, and to the wondering eyes of the household as they stared upon the five living dragons of House Targaryen, and later grew accustomed (as much as possible) to all but the largest wandering the halls and corridors, such odd choices – while adding great beauty – at last made _sense_.

Summerhall wasn’t a retreat for House Targaryen, not under the design and order of Prince Jaeherys.

It was a _home_ …not for people, but for _dragons_.

…

Queen Lyanna Stark stared with no little amount of awe at the edifice of Summerhall as she and her children were led through the front gates by the Kingsguard, her husband King Rhaegar Targaryen on her left with their son and heir Prince Aegon of Dragonstone on Rhaegar’s other side.

From the valley, Summerhall was impressive, gleaming in the sunlight with large windows of glistening glass (that explained much of Lord Tywin’s complaints over her good-brother Jaeherys taking a turn into the extravagant after previously being quite frugal with the building expenses) and carvings that showed the rise of House Targaryen all along the curtain wall.

Once you passed the gates however, and the sheer _size_ of Summerhall washed over you with gleaming towers of warm beige and blush stonework and gardens that stretched out betwixt and between the soaring towers high overhead, you could not help but believe that all who had doubted Jaeherys were the veriest of fools.  Jaeherys _was_ high-spirited, yes, a trait that made him quite the favorite of her children.  He could be spiteful to those who abused others and known in equal measures for his skill at sword or dagger and at tricks, but he was also frightfully intelligent.

More, he was a Targaryen, and while say what you will about their bad-apples, when Targaryens aspired to greatness and had the wits to match, none could outdo them.

Lyanna wasn’t certain what her good-brother planned to do with himself, though she rather thought her brother Benjen had more than an idea of his constant-companion’s plans and thoughts and inner-workings, but she knew that if Summerhall was a measure of Jaeherys’s potential, whatever those plans were, they were likely greater than most people were even capable of imagining.

And that was before a great black creature soared down from one of those sky-touching towers, her good-brother upon it’s back, and landed with a shiver of the land in the courtyard, Jaeherys rising once the creature – a _dragon_ , a living _dragon_ – had settled to stand upon its back.

“Your Graces!”  Jaeherys greeted, a wide mischievous grin upon his face as more forms poured from the towers and the current occupants of Summerhall: Lyanna’s brother Benjen, her good-mother Queen Rhaella, her good-brother Viserys, and Tyrion of House Lannister, came with studied calm from the palace, each taking position beside on of the _other_ dragons.  “Welcome one and all to Summerhall!”

“Papa?”  Her daughter Daenerys, now seven namedays old, turned her light purple eyes upon Lyanna’s husband the King.  “When did Uncle Jaeherys get dragons?”  She asked, then followed up with what – to her mind – was the more pertinent question.  “And why didn’t he get us one?”

 _When and why_ , Lyanna mused, even as the horses frisked and whinnied in panic as the servants led them in, the insistence of the Kingsguard that they dismount before entering the courtyard making much sense given the creatures that called Summerhall home, _indeed_.

Jaeherys leapt down from the back of the massive black, fully a measure or more larger than the others, and with bright green eyes only a shade or two lighter than Jaeherys’s own, coming over to greet them all and ignoring the exclaiming court who were being seen to – and handled – by Benjen, Tyrion, and the Kingsguard while the Targaryens handled their own, as they always had.

“What happened to introducing the new state of things, _gently_ , brother?”  Rhaegar lightly chided Jaeherys even as he pulled him into a strong embrace, having missed his younger brother’s company and council these last three years.

At least with winter now come, he would have a year or two with Jaeherys before the restless man took wing for the North or the Westerlands or even Essos to sate his wanderlust.

“You know I’ve never been one to hide, brother.”  Harry gave an unrepentant grin at Rhaegar’s answering eyeroll, the King leading Lyanna – who hadn’t removed her hand from his arm but hadn’t screamed or shown fear either at the sight of Balerion or the rest – to meet the dragons as his brothers greeted their children.  “Look here, Viserys.”  Jaeherys pretended to stagger in shock as Rhaella was busy fussing over her grandchildren.  “Someone has taken our little nieces and replaced them with ladies grown!”

“Uncle Harry,” Princess Rhaenys scolded him as she blushed at the fuss.  All of eleven namedays old, she was in that in-between stage of not-quite a girl but not yet a lady.  And having her handsome uncles fuss over her filled her with a young girl’s pleasure, even as she was old enough to see through the ado.  “You’re making a mummer of yourself.”

“You hear that, Viserys?”  Harry turned as asked – most obviously – his nephew nine namedays old Daerion, only to blink owlishly.  “I say, you’re not Viserys.”  He muttered, narrowing his eyes and pretending to make a study of it.  “Who is this young knight?  He can’t be Daerion?  He’s far too tall and strong for that!”

All the children laughed at him, even as they clamored him with greetings and hugs and questions about the dragons, splitting their chatter between their two uncles and their grandmother, from dark haired and purple eyed Aegon at now twelve and a squire with it, to silver hair and eyed Daerion, Rhaenys who was almost a copy of her mother, to pretty little Daenerys with her striking Valyrian looks.

“They are most fearsome.”  Lyanna commented to her husband as their children tumbled all around their uncles and grandmother, Benjen joining in with a squeezing hug for Daenerys or tossing Daerion to Jaeherys and back like a sack of flour.  “Though not as aggressive as the stories make them out to be.”

Rhaegar nodded, agreeing with his wife, though he’d been told as much by his brothers in their coded messages between Summerhall and the Red Keep or Dragonstone, at times one must see to believe.

And the near docility of even the biggest, Jaerherys’s Balerion, was still hard to believe.

“A matter of force over choice from what my brother tells me.”  Rhaegar imparted, the two coming to a stop about ten feet away from the dragons as they sat or curled up in the winter sun and waited for their people to be finished with their greetings and explanations, only Balerion’s green eyes and Zareen’s gold tracking the goings on despite their seeming repose.  “Magic can do terrible things and lead to terrible outcomes.  Jaeherys has reported no issues with these that have chosen to hatch hunting children or humans at all, nor attacking out of temper or pique.  The bond my brothers have told me of that is made when a dragon chooses to hatch for a rider is as much for our good as for theirs.”

Lyanna hummed under her breath, taking in the grey and silver dragon with lithe wings that her brother had stood beside, considering both what Rhaegar told her and what she was seeing with her own eyes.

“Not until they’re grown.”  She decided, arching a brow at her husband in wordless command.  “Until our children are grown they can’t be expected to fathom the responsibility that comes with such a bond, if they are chosen.”

“Yes, my love.”

“I suppose this overwintering will give you enough time to try and bond a dragon?”

“Yes, my love.”

Lyanna gave a delicate snort, taking one last look at the dragons before turning to go rescue her brother and her husband’s family from their children.

A respite from the trials of court, indeed.

Her husband wasn’t nearly as clever as he thought himself at times.

Well.

So long as he didn’t try and sneak dragon eggs into the cradles of their coming children, or the beds of their current ones, she supposed that there were worse preoccupations her Rhaegar could have than raising a dragon.

At least he wasn’t in and out of brothels, like that blasted Robert Baratheon who had pursued her hand until Rhaegar chose her for his queen.

If she were Cersei Lannister, Lyanna would have poisoned his mead long before now, and certainly before the birth of his most recent by-blow in the brothels of Fleabottom.

…

Part and parcel of the design was the great openness that catered to the dragons also cleverly hid the few corridors and hidden passageways to the dragon caves Harry had carved out of the mountain behind Summerhall and connected to the palace via the underground cavern-ways.

Balerion had given much input and advice into the matter, as concerned with the continuance of his brethren as his chosen rider was with his family.

And as Harry was more than willing to bend his magic to the first, Balerion was willing to bring to bear his centuries of life to ensure the latter.

Deep within the dragon caves of Summerhall laid a succession of smaller caverns meant to protect the most vulnerable of their kind: their eggs.  Even a hatchling could cry out for help or spit flames or otherwise defend itself.  Their unborn had no such defense.  They relied totally on the strength of their kin and their kin’s riders to protect them, a charge that Harry took as seriously as that of protecting his blood family.

Perhaps even more as an old proverb of his first life would have it: “blood of the covenant is thicker than water of the womb.”

Harry had sworn an oath to both himself and Balerion to protect dragon-kind, one Balerion had returned to defense of Harry’s family when the day came that the great dragon outlived his chosen rider.

Warded tighter than any Gringotts vault against intruders, the chamber Harry enchanted to be the repository of any eggs – laid or found – that waited for a rider was located within the deepest point of the cavern complex.  More to the point: it required either Harry’s blood or that of another who was entwined in the wards such as Benjen or Balerion himself to open at all.  Magic was a rare enough thing in the Known World anymore that it was also one of the greatest defenses he could lay out for his family and his charges.  There might only be two unhatched eggs – that he’d found thus far – at the moment, but he guarded them no less fiercely for it, and the chamber was inlayed with complex wards that regulated everything from access to the hot temperature of the cavern.

For that matter, all of the dragon caverns were lined with runes to keep the dragons comfortable even in the worst of cold winters.

Cold may not _harm_ them, as dragons were said to be living flame and Harry knew from his own experience that even as hatchlings they burned with an internal temperature that would fry a human’s brain and organs, but that did not mean they weren’t most _comfortable_ in warmer climes either.

Leading Rhaegar down into the chamber, with the other Targaryen riders with them and Lyanna at his side, Harry explained – just a bit – over the expansion and the routes that could lead the Targaryens or other riders and their families to safety within the caverns and the protection of the dragons in case of an assault or siege upon Summerhall.

The chamber was connected to the largest of the internal mountain caverns, a gathering place for the dragons that would easily fit many more…at least until they reached the size of Balerion was in the last fifty years of his first life.  The reasoning was simple: blackguards _might_ somehow make it deep within the caverns.  The likelihood of both having the magic to open the door to the chamber and _also_ make it passed the congregating dragons?  Minimal to none.

It was a combination that was the last – and the best – line of defense that Balerion and Harry could conjure for the most vulnerable of the Black Dread’s kind.

And one that even strategic minded Tyrion had approved of, when he’d gotten around to finally asking what Harry and Balerion were bothering with excavating even _more_ caverns for.

“The weyr is content – for the moment – to call Summerhall home.”  Harry wound up his explanation and patter to the King and his Queen thus.  “That may change in the coming years, but for now they are happy enough.”

“Weyr?”  Lyanna asked, frowning lightly at the strange word of perhaps Valyrian origins.  Rhaegar had taught her much High Valyrian in the years since they’d wed, but the more common dialects and Old Valyrian that Rhaella had taught her three sons sometimes escaped her.  It was an understandable lapse in her education, given that anymore outside of Essos, High Valyrian was used mostly for poetry and songs with the rest naught at all.

“A group of dragons, riders, and attendants, my love.”  Rhaegar smiled down at his northern rose.  “Whereas a group of dragons alone would be a thunder, rage, or flight depending on the region and their nature.”

“Some dragons are more given to rage than others.”  Harry smirked a little at the dryly implied censure in his mother’s words.  “Much like their riders.”

“How intelligent are they, truly?”  Lyanna asked, more out of interest than concern for her children.  Some women, given the circumstances, would doubt the word of their husband and good-brothers regarding the dragons aboveground who watched over the valley of Summerhall.  All save the black, Balerion she’d been told, who had followed them down.

Her good-brother Jaeherys scratched at said dragon’s cheek scales as he rested his large head on the ground beside the egg chamber, laying down and rolling his great green eyes at Lyanna’s question.

“More than some humans I’ve met in my life.”  Harry told her with a grin, Viserys echoing it as the two shared a glance over some shared joke or another, likely at the expense of Lyanna’s brother Brandon or his wife.  “They are loving and loyal to their friends, deadly to their enemies, and well able to tell the difference.  A dragon is a simple being at heart: they only do what they _want_ to do.  That said, with the bond between dragon and rider, they’re not likely to behave as the Cannibal or Sheepstealer did in their day, or hunt children in the night as mothers warn naughty children.  I won’t tell you, good-sister,” he smiled his most charming smile at the silver-eyed Lyanna.  “That a bonded dragon is a _safe_ dragon, Balerion would roast me alive for saying such nonsense.  But they’re not any more monstrous than most men.”

“Somehow.”  Lyanna snorted softly.  “That fails to fill me with relief given some of the men the histories speak of.”

That the father of her husband was one such monster went unsaid.

“I didn’t intend to relieve your mind, Lya.”  Harry smirked at his brother.  “That’s Rhaegar’s job.  Mine is to inform you, given that your own brother and my personal menace Benjen was chosen by Inanna, there is no reason to believe that someday you might be chosen as well.”

“Me?”  Lyanna arched a brow even as she watched Harry slit open his forearm and rub the blood against the wall, an archway opening before their eyes even as her good-brother healed his wound with a few words in a strange tongue and a flicker of his fingers.  “Ride a dragon?”

Rhaella gave a scolding glance at her sons when Viserys and Jaeherys snickered at Lyanna’s remark, taking it into the gutter as was common enough for young men, Rhaegar narrowing his eyes at them, already knowing what their dirty minds had conjured up at her words, his wife blushing deep red as she realized how her words could be – purposefully – misconstrued.

“And why not?”  Rhaegar asked, leading his lady over to where the two remaining eggs: one golden and silver lit with colors of fire and the other ice blue with dark navy, laid in state upon a dais cushioned with the finest silk.  “The blood of the First Men is as rich in your veins as that of Old Valyria is mine.”

Lyanna had no rebuttal to this, merely moved to stand beside her husband, the two of them entwining their hands on the dais between them.

“What do we do?”  She asked, glancing between the beautiful blue egg, the color of a winter sky over the Shivering Sea, and her husband who seemed transfixed by that of golden fire.

“Let them taste you.”  Harry told them both, lifting their free hands in his own and resting them each on the eggs the royal pair had gravitated to, Balerion hissing a chuckle in the outer-cavern at his internal complaint.

Benjen had called it.

He was going to be _impossible_ to live with for the next year.

No sooner had Harry thought it, then twin cracks sounded through the chamber and the dragons flying in the sky above the palace roared, the hatchlings joining them, as they added two more dragons and chosen riders to their Weyr.

…

**_Proclamation of King Rhaegar Targaryen, the First of his Name_ **

**_King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men_ **

**_Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_ **

**_On this day:_ **

**_The First Day of the First Moon of the Year Two-Hundred and Ninety-Five_ **

**_After Aegon’s Conquering_ **

_That it is the Will and Just right of the King to settle upon his brother, Ser Viserys, Prince of House Targaryen, the station and title of Prince of Summerhall, castellan of the same, on this day and going forward until the last day of Viserys, son of Aerys Targaryen second of his Name and brother of Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his Name._

_Also upon this day, does King Ser Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name, grant the petition of his brother, Prince Ser Jaeherys Targaryen, known affectionately as the Golden Prince of Westeros, to found a cadet branch of House Targaryen._

_This cadet branch of House Targaryen shall be known, now and in perpetuity, as House Targaryen of Valyria, their banner black with a golden emblazon of the three-headed sigil of House Targaryen of Westeros and Dragonstone, a device and sigil to use as the device and sigil of House Targaryen of Valyria now and in perpetuity, along with the chosen Words of Jaeherys, first Lord and Prince of House Targaryen of Valyria:_

_“From the Ashes We Rise.”_

_The colors of House Targaryen of Valyria shall be set down now and in perpetuity as black with gold, in honor of House Targaryen of Westeros and Dragonstone and the affectionate title of the House’s founding Lord and Prince._

_By the hand of King Rhaegar Targaryen, the First of his Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm._

…

_Dragonstone, 295 AC_

“It is a most _kingly_ gift if I do say so myself.”

Jaeherys rolled his eyes at the sound of the smooth voice, a voice that most definitely should not be in Dragonstone, let alone in his private rooms, let alone on the terrace overlooking the Narrow Sea.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in Lys?”  Harry asked, turning to look over his shoulder at the dark form of roguish Oberyn Martell, ignoring the “gift” that he’d been studying in the waters below him for the moment.  “In some sort of non-exile exile?”

“Since when have I ever done or been where I was supposed to?”  Oberyn asked with a cocky smirk, shoving off the wall where he’d been propped up watching the lithe form of Prince Jaeherys Targaryen, now Lord and Prince of his own cadet House.

An interesting political move, since the only acknowledged cadet branches – ever – of House Targaryen were the bastard Blackfyres who were utterly destroyed in the male line, and the current Baratheons of Storm’s End…though that was through the female line and therefore not a concern of the monarch unless somehow one managed to kill all three of Aerys’s sons as well as their children, which Rhaegar and Lyanna seem to keep producing, with twin girls born two years before at the beginning of winter and another son who arrived the year after.

Though whispers had reached Oberyn’s ears of the last being the true last, as with having given her husband and King seven children: three sons and four daughters, her grace the Queen had started taking moon tea after a difficult carrying and bringing forth of the youngest prince.

And that all was before one considered the _dragons_ , the rebirth of which, if Oberyn wasn’t mistaken and his friend Varys tended to ensure he rarely was, were the cause of both the founding of the cadet line of House Targaryen, and the kingly gift under discussion.

Not that Oberyn could blame Rhaegar for either.

The Silver King with his Northern Rose Queen – both dragon riders now, thanks to the work and some rumored magic of the second prince of Rhaella and Aerys – were still much beloved by their people.

But they hadn’t returned _magic_ to the minds of Westeros.

The Golden Prince _had_.

It was a sound move – both politically and for the sake of familial harmony – to let the wildest of the three dragon-brothers to wander the seas and the lands _outside_ of Westeros.

Jaeherys was as beloved a prince as Rhaegar was a king, but more likeable given that he tended towards laughter and pranks and strength at arms – rising as he did as the Champion of the Sword at the tourney of Summerhall this past moon – rather than melancholy and study of ancient scrolls.

And when faced with a likeable prince with no inclination towards the Citadel, the Faith, the Watch, or the Kingsguard, well.

A different man would have forced the matter.

It was for the good of all Westeros that neither Rhaegar nor Jaeherys were different men, and loved each other as fiercely as Oberyn loved his maiden sister Elia and his Sand Snake daughters.

Jaeherys wasn’t a stupid man, not by any measure, and knew the untenable position his feats had placed his brother the King in.

A cadet branch and a kingly gift of ten galleases commissioned from the shipyards of both the Crownlands and the Storm Lands, with men to crew them of every race and creed, and knights and friends in much the same position as Jaeherys such as Benjen Stark and Tyrion Lannister to accompany them, was a small price to pay to remove Jaeherys from the Westerosi game of thrones.

That the three dragonriders would be taking their dragons with them was the only real downside to the situation for the Iron Throne that Oberyn could see.

Though Rhaella’s Zareen, Rhaegar’s Xerax, and Lyanna’s Wynter would all remain, along with Viserys’s Syrexian.

Rhaella and Zareen tended to stay at Summerhall along with Viserys and Syrexian, while Xerax and Wynter flew between whatever stronghold the royal couple happened to be making their home at any given time, whether Dragonstone, the Red Keep, Summerhall, or that of their lords and landholders on a progress of the kingdoms.

It was spring again after all, with summer to follow, and a royal progress was expected, much as many waited with baited breath for word of the crown prince to hatch a dragon of his own now that he was coming up on his fourteenth nameday, though rumors had it that the Queen Lyanna would not agree to any of her children hatching dragons until they were men and women grown.

Wise of her, Oberyn would think, given the tempers that Targaryens tended to have alongside a lamentable habit of taking their bathing water far too hot.

“What did the final count come to?”  Oberyn asked, leaning on the railing beside his friend and sometimes-lover Prince Jaeherys.  “Over a thousand men-at-arms, including mounted knights and horse?  Plus sailors and crewmen?”  He blew out a whistling breath.  “Fine reward for restoring the glory of your line and building your brother a palace only for him to give it to your younger brother.”

Harry made a _tch_ ing sound, already full-up with annoyance over how some were viewing Viserys’s installment as Prince of Summerhall.

“I didn’t _want_ the damned thing.”  He complained for what seemed to be the hundredth time that week alone.  “I’m not meant to oversee a rookery or keep guard over the future of the Targaryen weyr.  That’s a job for Viserys and his temperament not me and mine.  He’s welcome to it – and that palace that goes with it – with my blessings and most grateful thanks.”

Just the thought of having to train his nieces and nephews in being riders after having to go through the trial of doing so for his brothers, mother, and good-sister was enough to give him hives.

At least Benjen and Tyrion had learned _with_ him.

There was a _reason_ why he’d never attempted to challenge Ned Stark’s position as the royal master-at-arms and it had _everything_ to do with having little patience for teenaged boys who were more cock-and-balls than brains.

At least the few rider’s he and Balerion had mentored were all grown – even if only mostly with Viserys – and not still smug little arseholes.

That said little arseholes were his nephews made not a whit of difference.

Facts were facts, and teenagers were a pain when he was one…both times.

“Jaeherys, the Golden Prince of House Targaryen, the Dragonborn.”  Oberyn rattled off, coming over to block his quarry up against the rail, breath hot on his neck.  “How many titles will you add to that trailing name before you’re done in Essos I wonder?”

Jaeherys leaned back into him, enjoying the sensation of Oberyn’s lean strength surrounding him and his hot black eyes and hotter mouth burning a trail from lips to jaw to neck, giving out a gasp.

Stuck at Summerhall with only his family and friends for company, it had been too damned long since he’d had time to entertain anyone in his private chambers.

And given the hands that were making quick work of his casual attire before Harry turned in Oberyn’s arms and bore them both back into his rooms and to his bed, he wasn’t the only one who’d gone without…though in Oberyn’s case it was likely only for however long it’d taken him to sneak from King’s Landing to Dragonstone and not for over a year.

The hot-eyed bastard of a Dornishman.

…

Standing on the balcony of Dragonstone, having awayed the ships and watching as the three first dragon riders in over a hundred years took wing, Lyanna turned to her husband even as Xerax and Wynter came down from the skies to comfort their humans after flying high for long moments with the three eldest living of their kind.

Wynter in particular would miss Balerion and his Harry, for they understood their wildness the best of all the elder dragons and their riders, even Wynter’s own rider’s nest-mate Benjen.

“Do you really think he will succeed in this mad plan of his?”  Lyanna asked, half-afraid Jaeherys wouldn’t manage it…and half-afraid he would, though it shamed her to admit.  After all, if one Targaryen could conquer Westeros with two other riders at his side, what more might one with dragons and magic accomplish?

A frightening thing to contemplate, as for good or for ill, with her husband’s proclamation regarding Jaeherys, he was beholden to no other on the earth, save for his bond to Balerion and whatever other vows and bonds he _chose_ to honor.

“Taking Bloodstone and routing the pirates of the Stepstones with three dragons and a little over a thousand men?”  Rhaegar laughed a bit, shaking his head.  “If anyone I know could manage it, it’s Jaeherys.  Or did you mean his quest against slavers?”

Lyanna thought a moment, then answered honestly with “both.”

“If anyone _could_ do it, I would venture it was him.”  Rhaegar said a time later, long enough that Lyanna had thought she wasn’t going to be given an answer at all.  “He’s not well-made for the idle games that come of _ruling_ , that is true, at least as he is now.  My brother is a throw back to our ancestor, a Conqueror in all but name.  I would think he will manage it…it’s what comes _after_ that has me concerned and anticipating years of reforms in Westeros.”

“How do you mean?”  She asked perplexed.  There was no slavery in Westeros.  Why, even _consorting_ with slavers like that Jorah Mormont would lead to either exile or death if caught.

A remnant of the Andal invasion that even the staunchest of the First Men agreed with, even as they disliked everything _else_ the Andals had brought with them.

The First Men of the North had never been slavers or slave-masters and disdained the way many Southron lords treated their smallfolk as a result.

“Well,” Rhaegar smiled, the look more than a bit enigmatic.  “Can’t hardly let my little brother show me up now can I?  He’s off to make a better world than the one our father left us.  I had best do my part and push through more protections for the smallfolk.  They are in much better straights than they’d been under my father, that is true, but there is still much work to be done…”


	9. Dragonborn

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Eight: Dragonborn**

_The Drunken Dornishman Inn, Weeping Town, The Storm Lands_

“Ten fierce galleases, a thousand men-at-arms, and three dragons with riders beside.”  Davos Seaworth, the most notorious smuggler of the Narrow Sea, noted then asked.  “What need could a Prince so well provisioned have of a simple smuggler, milord?”

Harry smiled at the swarthy smuggler, who was known as an honest man for all that he smuggled everything from spices and silk to onions all throughout the Narrow Sea to help traders avoid the taxes and tariffs found in legal ports, though notably he did not smuggle for the flesh-trade despite it being much more lucrative than any other form of smuggling.

Oberyn had no sooner finished “softening” Harry to his current plot than he’d sprung it upon him the morning he was set to sail from Dragonstone, a plot that had led to a simple inn common room in Weeping Town.

It seemed the two eldest Sand Snakes wished to adventure as their father once had, and being a loving if not out-right doting father to his eight daughters, Oberyn had sought to entrust Obara and Nymeria to a man he knew would look after their interests and guard their backs, which as no one who had ever met them could call them weak or wilting neither had any need of a guard for their front.  Obara may not have Nym’s beauty, but she’d chosen her father’s spear over her mother’s tears long ago, and while their next-eldest half-sister Tyene might be the deadliest of the Sand Snakes with her innocent looks and liking for poison, Nymeria could very well be the most dangerous.  No, Harry had no qualms about taking the Sand Snakes along on his journey.  Especially when as a result Oberyn was willing to introduce him to such _interesting_ friends of the roguish Dornishman such as Davos, Captain of the _Black Betha_ , and his sons who to a one even the youngest babe were as good on a ship as their father.

“You are a man who understands family, Captain Davos.”  Harry noted, eyes flitting with meaning over to the table where two of Davos’s sons were entertaining – and entertained if the blushes on the younger’s cheeks were any hint – by the two Sand Snakes.  “And what one must do to secure their future.”

“Aye, that I am.”  Davos answered with caution.

“So does my brother.”  Harry cocked his head to the side, his long pale-gold braid falling over one shoulder at the motion.  “So do I.  And it is untenable to me that my nephew Aegon, Prince of Dragonstone, might be harassed by pirates from the Stepstones if he should wish to visit his friends at Driftmark or Claw Island, or sail to Sunspear or the Water Gardens to pay his respects to Dorne.  Or that my cousins at Storm’s End should have their lords and lands plagued by the same.”

“I begin to see the way of it.”  Davos said, slowly setting down his mug of beer.  “You’re after more ships.  Ten ships, even ten galleases, will never be enough to control the Stepstones, even with dragons.  You cannot be everywhere at once.”

“And my good friend Oberyn tells me that the most notorious smuggler of our time might be interested in trading his black sails for a banner with a golden dragon, and has a friend of his own in Lys with another two dozen ships that might be willing to take gold for a time in exchange for his service.”  Harry responded.

“I cannot speak for Salla.”  Davos warned, tempted by the implied offer of turning from an outlaw who had to worry over the headsman’s axe to a captain sailing under the banner of Prince Jaeherys Targaryen.  It wasn’t as if the current pirate lord of Torturer’s Deep was any friend of Davos’s…or indeed a friend to anyone at all save a select few who knew him before he grew airs.  “I can only arrange an introduction in Lys.”

“An introduction is all I need.”  Harry assured him, then laid out the offer for Davos and his sons. 

Salladhor Saan was a different creature than a simple smuggler and one that Harry would have to deal _very_ carefully with.  Still, there was a security in men that loved gold, even if you couldn’t trust them to do more than kill for you so long as you paid them better than another.  And Salladhor Saan was such a gold-loving man. 

“As for you and your sons who are captains in their own right my offer is simple: houses in Bloodstone, ships that fly the black and gold of Jaeherys Targaryen, and the knowledge that you no longer have to worry about dodging the headsman’s axe in either Westeros or any lands that fly the three-headed dragon of House Targaryen whether that dragon be gold or red.”

“We’re fighters enough, but smugglers, not pirates or sell-sails.”  Davos warned.  “I don’t know how much help we’ll be in a battle.”

Harry waved this off.

“I’m not concerned about taking the Stepstones, as you’ve said, I’ve three dragons.”  He said frankly, then flicked his fingers under the table to set a privacy ward in place, keeping the next words between him and a man his instincts – and Oberyn – swore he could trust.  “But keeping them once I turn my eyes to other projects and aspirations?  I’ll need men that I can trust in Bloodstone, whichever way things end.”

“Aye, you’ve the right of that.”  Davos huffed a laugh, scratching at his salt-and-pepper beard.  He was too damn old to want to worry over the gallows anyway.  “We’ll join you, milord, and I’ll arrange that meeting with Salla, but what he’ll say…”  He shrugged.  Salladhor loved his gold but even so could be unpredictable.  Even Davos couldn’t say how Salla would take a Targaryen with his dragons laying siege to the Stepstones.

…

“Prince Jaeherys.”  Obara called out to him, a bit haltingly when they were on the longboat manned by Jaeherys’s crew, being rowed back to the flagship of his nascent fleet _The Black Dread_. 

Together with the ships commanded by Tyrion: _The Golden Dragon_ , and Benjen: _The Winged Wolf_ , it made up the arrow-point of the small-but-growing fleet.  After all, between Davos and his two older sons who captained ships of their own, it had grown in one-night’s work to thirteen, a number of power in his first life. 

“I don’t mean to question you…”  Except she did.  “But why would you have a meeting of importance in an inn’s common room?”  She frowned, not being as skilled in deception as her sisters were, but then she focused almost solely on combat at their father’s side rather than the courtly games and wiles taught at his paramour Ellaria’s so such was understandable.  “Word of your conversation will be all over Westeros and the Narrow Sea within a day.”

“That’s rather the point, I would imagine.”  Lady Nym, as the second-eldest baseborn daughter of Oberyn was called, said with her dry wit.  “Pirates aren’t known for their literacy but they are a bunch of gossips if father’s stories are true.”

“And not _only_ pirates make their homes in the Stepstones.”  Harry finished, nodding with a smile at Nymeria.  “I can’t send a raven of warning to whatever poor souls have no choice but to deal with the dregs of Torturer’s Deep to scratch out a living, but I can set tongues to wagging which is almost as good.  As you say, Obara Sand.”  Harry turned his focus to the elder Sand Snake.  “Soon all of the Stepstones will know that Jaeherys Targaryen is bringing ships and dragons to clear out the Stepstones and take them for his own.  And I’m hardly the first Targaryen Prince to attempt it.  If I want to succeed with as little collateral damage as possible, they need warning.  The smart will leave if they can, or at least avoid Bloodstone, Torturer’s Deep, and Grey Gallows if they can’t.  Only the dregs and the stubborn fools will be left – and I have no such qualms over their lives as I do the others, such as the children who live with their mothers and pirate fathers on Bloodstone and Grey Gallows.”

It wouldn’t be enough he knew.

Innocents were going to die no matter what he did.

But at least with a warning and a new order imposed on the Stepstones, those that survived wouldn’t be subject to the predations of slavers from Tyrosh and the pirates of Torturer’s Deep any longer.

…

It seemed strange at times how disaster can change the face of the world.

Disaster at times, was better at changing the established order than anything else, despite the conceits of men.

Legend had it that when the First Men crossed the Arm of Dorne which once connected that land to Essos, that the greenseers of the Children of the Forest had worked a great magic and shattered the Arm, leaving behind the Stepstones to guard the way between the Narrow Sea to the north and the Summer Sea to the South.

A single fortress had been built upon the scattered remnants of the Arm centuries later by the Dragonlords of Valyria, one of their far-flung outposts named Bloodstone, on the largest island of the Stepstones.

And then when the Valyrian Freehold was destroyed with the Doom, not even the last dragonlords of the former Freehold, House Targaryen ever again managed to keep a hold on the Stepstones which changed hands between the warring city-states of Lys and Tyrosh, as well as Dorne, with a brief conquest by Prince Daemon Targaryen before it was left to fall once more into the hands of pirate “lords” who haunted the Stepstones.

Three islands over time came to be inhabited due to their prime location in the central Stepstones: the old Valyrian stronghold of Bloodstone, the much smaller island directly to Bloodstone’s south of Grey Gallows, and the last having one of the best harbors at the edge of the Stepstones and the Summer Sea that over time became known as Torturer’s Deep.

Three islands, three harbors, and three settlements that must be taken before even the mildest claim of dominion over the gateway between the Summer Sea to the Narrow Sea could be considered valid by any measure.

It was fortunate then, that Jaeherys happened to have three dragons at his command, and zero compunction regarding burning the cogs and galleys and skiffs of the pirate dregs that hadn’t taken his words to Captain Davos to heart.

Balerion swept through the Stepstones, Harry upon his back, like a scythe through dry wheat as Tyrion kept guard over the Western flank of the small fleet upon Vaiva, and Benjen played advance scout on Inanna, reporting back to Jaeherys and the fleet of which islands were inhabited by the relatively innocent, and which were dens of corruption.

The former were left alone after gaining their compliance, which was easy enough when one rode a dragon.

And the latter learned what it was to fear dragon fire.

Harry had no wish to waste the lives of his men before they reached their objective, and with the outlaying islands to the east and west of Bloodstone either ash or sworn to his banner, he could lead his men and thirteen ships to Bloodstone and the battle they’d been promised would be theirs.

Westeros had been at peace for all of Rhaegar’s twenty years of reign and the men-at-arms of the Seven Kingdoms were fractious for it between aging soldiers and knights wishing to relive and reclaim old glories and young bucks wanting to make their names and their fortunes in battles considered more “honorable” than joining with one of the many sell-sword or sell-sail companies of Essos by dint of the three-headed dragon on Jaeherys’s banner and the power of his family name.

Crewing his ships would never be an issue as a result, it was the sheer _time_ it took to build a fleet from nothing that was the problem leading him to the likes of Saan.

At Bloodstone he didn’t bother with burning ships, especially when they could be taken, as seeing the coming dragons, the pirates and smugglers and outlaws who had taken refuge in the old fortress had found it more prudent to hide behind strong dragonglass walls reinforced with Valyrian steel in much the same fashion as Dragonstone than on a ship built of wood.  Stone walls may not keep out a dragon, but at least they weren’t as easy to burn as wood, canvas sails, and sealing tar.  It was at Bloodstone that Harry was to fight the first real _battle_ of his second life, and to his own shock, he found he’d missed it.

Not the death or the blood.

He wasn’t turning into Tom at last after all this time, no.

But the heart-pumping adrenaline that came with fighting a man who wanted to kill you and coming out the victor…that, it seemed, he _had_ missed.

And if Benjen’s manic grin set in a blood-streaked face was any sign, along with the roars and curses and cheers of his men as after Balerion tore the gates from Bloodstone and the thousand-strong of them poured into the fortress walls, he wasn’t the only one.

With the dragons keeping archers from the walls, the incursion force didn’t have to worry about watching their heads from above, only attacks from every other possible direction.

Blood spilled red upon the black stones of the fortress and tangy within the nose as they pressed ever onward.

Harry’s men obeyed his law: giving quarter to those who surrendered and not falling upon the taken like ravaging, raping wolves.

And so they should.

He’d trained with them, tested his own steel against them in the tourney and sparring rings, and hand-selected them himself when Rhaegar made his offer of men and ships to go with the freedom Harry had so desperately wanted from those who had answered Rhaegar’s call for men to adventure in Essos with Jaeherys Targaryen.

Every man of his thousand strong were hard bitten soldiers and knights, loyal to their golden prince and him alone with nothing to gain by remaining in Westeros and everything to earn by following him hence.

Even into the smoke and ash and bloody hell of battle against the scum of the known world.

They took the fortress, of course they did, but not without losses.

Those who surrendered were taken by their own cogs and an “honor guard” of Benjen upon Inanna to Eastwatch-by-the-Sea, the Wall and the Night’s Watch their ultimate destination.

Those who didn’t died to a man and were burned in a mass cremation curtesy of Balerion’s green-flecked black flames.

Harry himself had taken a dagger to the shoulder thanks to one of the last sons-of-bitches who remained standing at the end of the battle, the tip finding the joint between shoulder and chest plate.

Just another scar, and a reminder to wear his full-mail underneath his armor no matter how damned thick and muggy the Bloodstone air was.

He’d barely had it cleaned and wrapped when the messenger arrived from Torturer’s Deep and the current pirate lord.

It was a simple message, but as vicious and grotesque as the man himself was rumored to be.

The head of a golden-haired and green-eyed slave boy, collar still in place around his neck, with a crude mockery of the sigil of House Targaryen carved into one cheek, an apple stuffed in his mouth.

“Well,” Tyrion arched his brow at the bloody offering, even as Harry ordered it taken away and burnt with the bodies of all the rest of the dead after removing the collar and setting it aside – likely to brood over given that distressing inclination Harry shared with his elder brother and nephew.  “It seems our pirate lord doesn’t like you.”

Davos snorted from where he was studying the sea-charts that were tacked up in the chamber Harry had commandeered until Bloodstone could be set to rights, a job for a combination of smallfolk from the surrounding Stepstones and those imported from Westeros to ensure the loyalty and compliance of the former.

“Thinks I’m a pig, apparently.”  Harry huffed a laugh of his own, feeling tired bone-deep.  The incursion hadn’t taken long as such things could go, but they’d likely still be clearing out nests of pirates for days yet.  The order had already been given, and he knew he needed to get a start on setting Bloodstone to rights, but at the moment with the pain of his wound setting in and the rush of battle wearing off, all he wanted was a soft pallet and twelve hours of sleep.  “Though what I’ve ever done to earn _that_ I can’t say.”

“More like he sees you as something to slaughter.”  Davos muttered, Jaeherys and Tyrion giving shrugs of agreement.  “Grey Gallows isn’t nearly as fortified, and given what happened here should be easy enough to take even with Lord Benjen taking a ship and a dragon to Eastwatch.  It’s Torturer’s Deep that’ll be the problem.  It may not have a Valyrian fortress on it, but that harbor would be like sailing into the very maw of a beast.”

“We’ll manage, Davos.”  Harry commented.  “Even without your Lyseni friend.  Have you had any better luck locating him?”

Davos grumbled a bit.  “Looks like he might be in Braavos at the moment.”

“Hmm.”  Harry hummed under his breath and then stood with a stretch.  “Pity.  At this rate he’ll miss all the fighting – and all the rewards that go with it.”

…

“Your Grace.”  The whisper-soft tones of Varys, Master of Whispers to Rhaegar Targaryen, announced his arrival in the private study of his patron and king.

“What news of my brother?”  Rhaegar asked, knowing that Varys would as always have word of anything of note that happened in the Known World before ravens and messages from beyond Westeros ever reached their shores.  Jaeherys was a decent correspondent, particularly with his nieces and nephews, but had other concerns at the moment than allying his elder brother’s worries.

“In the last fortnight, Prince Jaeherys has laid siege to the Stepstones and captured both Bloodstone and Grey Gallows, your grace.”  Varys informed him, not even bothering to affect a look of shock for the news.  Rhaegar wasn’t one who appreciated subterfuge in private matters no matter how much he relied on Varys’s discretion in public ones.  “His captives who took up arms against him have thus far been used to swell the ranks of the Night’s Watch, for which their recruiter Yoren and Lord Commander Mormont are much obliged.”

Rhaegar brooded on that a long moment, Varys knowing him well by now after several years of service keeping his own thoughts quiet until Rhaegar had had a change to tame his own.

“My birds tell me that while Prince Jaeherys received a minor wound at Bloodstone it has not bothered him since, only leaving behind a small scar.”  He tsked.  Varys may not have the correct parts or inclination to truly enjoy the beauty of the adult Targaryen princes to their fullest, but that didn’t stop him from doing so otherwise.  It was such a shame to mark the skin of so beautiful a two-natured man as Prince Jaeherys.  Desire could do – had done – awe-inspiring and appalling things alike to the world.  For his part Varys had no interest in physical desires.  Even still, he appreciated beauty.

Prince Viserys for all his softer ways hadn’t the finer looks and lean strength of his elder brother, and Rhaegar while considered the epitome of masculine handsomeness hadn’t the striking bones of his younger brother despite that when young the three could have passed at times for mirrors of one another at the same age.

Save for the eyes of Jaeherys, the like of which Varys had yet to see matched, even in the glorious purples and indigos of his House.

Daenerys, perhaps, Varys thought might match her uncle for greatest beauty of House Targaryen, but still had a handful of years until she truly blossomed to find out.

“And the losses?”

“Less than a hundred men all-told.”  Varys sighed.  “On the part of Prince Jaeherys at least.  Much more than that on the part of the pirates.  Though I fear the losses will be significantly greater after storming Torturer’s Deep.  Prince Jaeherys might be boosting his forces thanks to the late arrival of Saan, but the so-called pirate Lord Prendos has long been friends of Saan, which will likely force Prince Jaeherys to lead the attack and have Saan guard his flank.”

“The first and last friend of Salladhor Saan has always been gold.”  Rhaegar said with a scowl for the Lyseni who had once dubbed himself the “Prince of the Narrow Sea” until the Targaryen fleet under the command of Lord Velaryon had disabused him of that notion.  “He might not take up direct arms against Prendos but he’s unlikely to betray Jaeherys for fear of Balerion’s wrath if naught else.”

“A dragon’s wrath is a terrible thing indeed, your Grace.”  Varys much enjoyed the pun, given that of all the Targaryens, it was Jaeherys who’d been dubbed the “Dragonborn” and not just for his two-natured state.  “I would not wish it upon any of my friends.”

“Though I’m sure many in Essos are currently wishing it upon their enemies and rivals.”  Rhaegar laughed darkly with a wry smirk before dismissing his Master of Whispers.

Varys for his part kept his own smirk well hidden, for that last was truer than even Rhaegar could know.

…

_Pentos_

“And what of our plan, Mopatis?”  The leader of the Golden Company demanded furiously.  “Homeless” Harry Strickland had seen many things in his years as a sell-sword and been in league with Magister Illyrio for longer than he cared to think.  But never had he seen such a think as the destruction wrought upon the Stepstones in dragon fire and the sword in Jaeherys Targaryen’s hand.  “The Mad King was one thing, and Rhaegar Targaryen has never been tested in battle against anything but pirates and outlaws.  But this?”  He scoffed.  “Jaeherys Targaryen is a different breed of dragon.  He is Dragonborn, restorer of the might and glory of the Targaryen Dynasty.”  He flung up a hand in disgust.  “We had sooner hope for the sun to set in the east and rise in the west than think we can turn him against his brother, or that he would stand idle and allow his family to be supplanted.  The cause is lost, Mopatis.”

It was a hard truth, Illyrio Mopatis, only son of Nysaria Blackfyre, supposed.

But a truth nonetheless.

Long had House Blackfyre dreamed and schemed to unseat their founding house, all because a foolish man gave his bastard son a famous sword and a legitimate name.

Ever since he was an orphaned bravo he’d worked his way towards that goal, as his mother had taught him from the cradle, even going so far as to find the last descendant of Aerion “Brightflame” Targaryen in Lys and wedding her over his beloved Saera.

Still, daughter of a whore or not, Mylys had given him a trueborn son who even now trained alongside the exiled knights of the Golden Company for half a year and as a nobleborn magister’s son the other half in Illyrio’s manse in Pentos.  Aegon was perhaps the only good thing that had ever come of his scheming.  Aside from his longstanding friendship with Varys, of course.

“One _plan_ is lost.”  Illyrio corrected his friend and the commander of the Golden Company.  “Another can always be made.  Aegon will not sit on the Iron Throne.  A disappointment, yes, but given the lives, gold, and blood lost in that dream perhaps it is best a lost cause given up before it takes all _we_ have to give as well.”

“Then what?”  Strickland scoffed.  “The Golden Company molders forever fighting the squabbles of Myr and Pentos, Tyrosh and Lys?  We want more than that.  You _promised_ us more than that, do you remember?  Or have your wits taken leave along with our hopes?”

“The Blackfyre name will never be welcomed in Westeros, this is true.”  Mopatis gestured for his slave-girl to refill their goblets with more of his fine wine.  “But Jaeherys Targaryen has named his House for Valyria, and not Westeros.  As you said, old friend.”  Illyrio raised his wine in toast to Strickland.  “Jaeherys Targaryen is a different breed.  Let us see what he does now that the Stepstones are taken, see where his eyes fall.”

“And see if he has any need of a sell-sword company or a cheesemonger, hmm?”  Strickland scoffed and scowled, even as he drank said cheesemonger’s wine.  “What need has he of us when he has dragons?”

“None at the moment.”  Mopatis sounded far too cheerful over that statement for Strickland’s liking.  “But with a Targaryen like this one in the world, a moment is all it can take for that to change.”

…

_Torturer’s Deep, the Stepstones_

“You’re late.”  Was all Davos had to say to his old friend Salla when the sell-sail’s longboat pulled up alongside _The Black Dread_ for the meeting between Salladhor and Jaeherys.

Salladhor for his part brushed that off in his cheerful way.

“You men of Westeros are always rushing, rushing.”  Salladhor smiled at the frowning Davos.  “He who hurries through life hurries to the grave.  You are my friend, my friend.”  He scolded Davos lightly after clasping arms with the (now former) smuggler.  “However, Prendos is my friend as well.  It would be unbecoming of me to listen to one friend’s offer and not give the other a chance to meet it.”

“Given that you’re here and not there.”  Davos jerked his head towards the island that waited just on the edge of the southern horizon from the two fleets.  “I imagine Prendos found it hard to match the offer of Prince Jaeherys.”

“Few are the pirate lords who could match the offer of a dragon prince, my friend.”  Saan shrugged.  Such was life.  “Even one such as me would be pressed to do it and I haven’t even heard the full offer yet.”  Though he could plainly see that the word of dragons was true.

Davos nodded to the pair of knights, younger sons if he knew anything about the ways of Westerosi highborn, who guarded the door to the prince’s stateroom, desperately ignoring the massive beast of a black dragon that slept on the upper deck that overlooked said entrance even as one great green eye slit open to mark them before closing and returning to slumber.

Each of the three flagships that housed the Prince, Ser Benjen, or Lord Tyrion had had out of necessity been built with their dragons in mind.  As a result during the day when the dragons often ranged overhead they had a shallow draw and cut through the water like hot knives through butter, but at night when the mass of fire-made-flesh rested upon them, the ships might as well be at anchor so low in the water do they sink, the _Black Dread_ worse than the others as the black was growing at a prodigious rate, easily outstripping its hatch-mates.  Though they took care not to draw attention to it, this also made the three flagships the lightest manned and least defended in comparison, which given that the riders could call their dragons at any moment wasn’t as much of a weakness as someone like Salla would make of it.

“May I present,” Tyrion began as soon as Saan cleared the doorway.  “Jaeherys, golden Prince of House Targaryen, The Dragonborn, Lord of Bloodstone.”

Jaeherys nodded to the Lyseni pirate and sell-sail, who by his rich mocha skin was of Summer Island extraction as Davos, realizing it was his turn, introduced Salladhor Saan.

“This is Captain Salladhor Saan of Lys.”  Davos said, clearly thinking and knowing that some of Salladhor’s cockier and more flamboyant titles he liked to claim such as Pirate Prince of the Narrow Sea wouldn’t go over well with Jaeherys.  “He’s a smarmy bastard, but he’s my friend.”

“Please.  Stop.”  Salla told him with a deadpan glance for the lowborn former-smuggler.  “You’ll make me blush.  Prince Jaeherys.”  Salladhor gave a flourishing bow to the golden-haired Targaryen Prince, regretting for a moment that he had no love for men or masculine two-natured, as Jaeherys was pretty enough to command a fortune for an hour of his time in any pillow-house in Lys.  “My friend tells me you have an offer for this captain.”

“Yes, I do.”  Harry nodded towards the seat opposite him at the small table he’d been seated at with Tyrion, his friend pouring another pair of glasses of the rich Arbor gold they’d been enjoying while making plans for Torturer’s Deep and awaiting Saan.  “Please, sit and drink.  It is no short journey from Braavos to Torturer’s Deep, even with calm spring winds.”

“But shorter than if there had been a winter blizzard or autumn squall.”  Salladhor agreed with good grace, taking a long sip of the golden wine and letting it dance on the tongue.  Say what you like about the Dragonborn, but he had damned good taste in wine.  And given the burned islands he’d passed and the ships flying the black-and-gold of Jaeherys Targaryen in the waters of both Bloodstone and Grey Gallows, he wasn’t bluffing over taking the Stepstones – and thereby control in and out of the Narrow Sea – for himself and his House.  “My thanks for the lovely drop.  What can Salladhor Saan do for the golden Prince of House Targaryen?”  He arched a brow.  “You clearly don’t need me or my ships to take the Stepstones, even with the clawing grasp my old friend Prendos has on Torturer’s Deep.”

“No, I don’t.”  Harry agreed with an easy smile that had no little charm of its own.  “However my vision is not so… _narrow_ as all that.  I have other things that may take my attention away from the Stepstones for a time, and I would hate to have to come back and conqueror my own lands all over again because being routed out of them once wasn’t enough for the more bloodthirsty and enterprising pirates of the neighboring waters.”

“You wish me to hold them, while you see to other business, nothing more?”  Salla raised his brows at that.  Between his ships and those of Davos and his sons, plus that of Jaeherys, it would be easier than catching a disease at a Fleabottom brothel.  He couldn’t help but wonder where the sting in the tail was.

“And collect the tariffs from passing ships as I set down – and not a penny more.”  Harry gave him an arch, if knowing, look.  “That’s all.  Tariffs that you will, of course, get a percentage of.”

“Wars are expensive.”  Salladhor noted in a seeming non-sequitur that was in all actuality rather apt.

“All the best things are.”  This time Harry’s smile could cut like a knife.  “What is your price?”

“A thousand gold dragons per ship, per month.”  Salla offered with a charming lilt.  “Plus ten percent of all tariffs.”

Tyrion scoffed as Jaeherys sat back, more than content to let the son of House Lannister argue the matter of gold.

Of the two, he was better at it after all, Harry would just as soon come to a more reasonable number and be done with it, while Tyrion actually _enjoyed_ arguing with merchants and traders until they ended up acting like he was stealing away their firstborn so good was the bargain, and yet he had a manner in the process that was so likable – and often helped along with a continuous pour of wine for the foolish or unsuspecting – that for all their protestations they still ended up feeling like a good deal was made all around.

“Highway robbery.”  Tyrion snorted, then frowned and corrected himself.  “Or high-seas robbery rather.  A hundred hundred gold dragons per ship, per month, and half a percent on all tariffs.”

“You would beggar me!”  Salla protested, falling back in his chair and miming a stab through the heart, one hand holding his chest and the other lifting his goblet to take a deep drink before countering.  “A thousand dragons and nine percent.”

“A hundred and two-thirds of a percent.”

“A thousand and eight-and-a-half.”

“ _Two_ hundred and seven-eighths.”

“Nine hundred and eight-and-a-half.”

“Two hundred and one percent.”

“Eight-and-eight.”

And on it continued this way for some time, as Harry watched in ever deepening amusement, Balerion enjoying the scene as well through his eyes, as the two combatants insulted each other, called the others father everything from a goat to a Mantarys donkey-headed harlot, and emptied two flagons of his second-best Arbor gold.

“Four hundred gold dragons per ship, per month.”  Tyrion’s tone took on a firmness that it hadn’t yet before, his eyes flashing in the lantern light both from the verve of a grand debate and haggle, and with temper.  Saan was far more stubborn than he had any right to be, and it likely had everything to do with Tyrion’s friend giving away far more of his plans than he ought before entering into negotiations with Lysene mercenaries.  Given that a man of the smallfolk could live comfortably on three gold dragons a year and a ransom of three hundred dragons for a noble heir and knight was prodigious, Saan was pressing his luck, indeed.  He was glad Harry had sent out orders for his own fleet to be build to the shipyards of Westeros ranging from Eastwatch to Sunspear, with orders going out as well to those of the Summer Islands.  They would pay Saan’s high-seas robbery while they had to, and in the meantime make other arrangements that suited them better for the long-term.  That Harry was _able_ to send out orders for a hundred ships in total, and none of the shipyards demanded coin in hand before beginning, said much of the common-belief in the rich coffers of House Targaryen.  “And three percent of all tariffs.”

Salla hemmed and hawed, but could see for himself that he’d pushed Lord Tyrion as far as he dared, as he turned and held out his arm to Prince Jaeherys.

“Done.”

“Done.”  Harry agreed, then whispered.  “It’s a good thing you agreed Captain Saan.  Had you pressured my friend any further, he might have made a pun about supply and demand.”

“How do you mean?”

“Simple.”  Harry sat back with a negligence that belied just how irritated he had gotten, despite his comingled amusement, over the price the Lysene pirate seemed to think his services – but more importantly his ships – were worth.  “I have a demand for ships at the moment that is true, and you have a supply.  But had you truly upset my friend, that supply could easily have been destroyed in a few gusts of dragon fire.”  Harry’s smile once more flashed like a blade.  “And then I’m sure another sell-sail captain could have been made much more reasonable demands in turn.”

Salla hastily hid a nervous swallow at that thinly-veiled warning behind his goblet.

Jaeherys Targaryen might have a distaste for the blood of innocents, but he had no such qualms about anyone else, and not even the most love-blinded mother or wife could espouse that the crews that sailed under a pirate’s flag were anything _near_ innocent.

In that moment, Salladhor Saan’s single goal became to make it out of his bargain alive and with most of his fleet intact, though the gold was not without its comforts even in the face of a vicious Prince of House Targaryen who had little patience for those who preyed upon others.

…

Jaeherys was tired.

His black-plate armor with its golden dragon detailing was smeared with blood and dirt and shit from dying men.  Smoke – not from dragonfire but from Prendos ordering his own ships put to flame rather than have them fall into Harry’s hands – choked the air and stung at his eyes.  And despite the ring of steel-on-steel that sounded from the few remaining pockets of resistance from the last pirates alive and fighting, above it all were the gurgles and cries of dying men.

The fine castle-forged steel sword in his hand felt heavy, nearly as heavy as the weight of lost lives from this would be on his mind in the days to come.

He’d taken Torturer’s Deep.

That had always been a foregone conclusion.

A conclusion that it seemed that had occurred to more than Jaeherys and his allies, Prendos determined to make it cost as much in blood and men – on both sides – as possible.

With the sheer number of pirate dead, Harry might have been better off after all to simply let Balerion burn the ramshackle city to the ground and rebuild the port and harbor from the ashes that remained.

Lesson learned.

His arm nearly dead from the weight and motion of swinging and hacking his way through pirates – men and women alike – and feet dragging from both his physical and mental exhaustion, Jaeherys gave a mental _thank you_ to Balerion when his bonded dragon at last managed to spot his main captains: Benjen and Davos in the smoke and low light of the early morning.  The battle had lasted through the previous day and night.  But as ever, there was something heartening about the sunrise.

Making his way through the mud and muck of the dirt-patch port that called itself Torturer’s Deep, Harry came up to his captains and sheathed his sword, hoping that he wouldn’t have to take it out again this day, for a rest for his arm if nothing else.

“Report.”

“They’re routed.”  Davos told him in his clipped short-speech smallfolk manner.  “Some scattered to the hills.”

Harry’s eyes flicked to Benjen, who just gave a nod.  He’d arrived back from Eastwatch barely in time to make the battle, but without a prison-barge to escort Inanna had made the return in almost no time at all.  A good thing, since his prat of a friend wouldn’t have waited for him, and while Tyrion made a decent enough commander from the rear or a scout in the air, he wasn’t a fighter who could guard Harry’s back.

No, that was a job for Benjen, and he was damn good at it…when the irritating pillock didn’t manage to lose him every-other second.

“I’ve sent squads to deal with it.”  Benjen added.  “Unless they’ve boats on the leeward side of the island in hiding, they’re not going anywhere but the Wall.”

“Good.”  Harry nodded, allowing his shoulders to drop a bit in relief.

There was no need to ask after “Lord” Prendos.  Harry had taken care of that problem himself.

“That’s good.”

“What now, Harry?”

“Now?”  Harry looked out over the burning ships in the harbor and the men laying in puddles of blood in the mud and dirt and sand.  “We burn the dead and regroup.  I have a few things to take care of but…”  He trailed off, an implacable look on his face as he took in the death all around him one more time.  “It can wait until we’re certain we won’t have to repeat this same battle in a fortnight with the next idiot that thinks because I’m two-natured I don’t have the balls to keep what is mine.”

And above all, that was exactly what the Stepstones were now.

 _His_.

Gods help him.

…

That night, as his men celebrated their victory over the Stepstones or mourned their fallen comrades – or both all at once – Harry climbed up upon the wing of Balerion the Black Dread and settled himself into the curve between neck and shoulders.  Without magic it would be both a vastly uncomfortable – and insecure – seat, requiring a custom short-saddle like that Balerion once wore to allow Aegon the Conqueror or Maegor the Cruel to ride him.  Like the one made for Tyrion and then enchanted by Harry and Benjen to grow with Vaiva, and for her own comfort and protection.

But as Balerion took to the air and headed northwest, there was no place else he’d rather be in all the world.

…

_The Grand Maester’s Quarters, Maegor’s Holdfast, the Red Keep_

“Did you kill the boy, young rider?”  The aged voice of Aemon Targaryen called as Harry opened the door to his chambers.

He didn’t bother to ask how Aemon knew.

Somehow he always did.

Magic, of a different kind than Harry’s most like, or a sense of smell or hearing that had advanced even as Aemon’s sight faded.

Gods knew, even after a bath and a change of clothes from his plate armor into the simple uniform of a rider: padded leather pangs with a simple supply bag strapped to his thigh, a sleeveless button-down shirt, and thick leather gloves; that Harry still smelled of death.

There were days, ever since Bloodstone really, that he wondered if it would ever wash off.

“The Stepstones are taken, Uncle-Maester.  With plenty of boys killed in the process.  Whether the _right_ boy was killed, who could say?  Some might reason that that boy died long more I took one step towards Bloodstone.”  Harry told him, side-stepping the question that went back to the same advice Aemon had been giving to a certain caliber of Targaryen male since his brother Aegon V was selected to mount the Iron Throne.  “I’ve had my fill of death, for the moment.”

“Not what you remembered, was it?”

“No.”  Harry admitted easily, even as he came to sit opposite the grey-robed Aemon at the crackling fire in his well-appointed chambers.  “It wasn’t.  War, battles.”  He shifted uneasily as he stared into the flames.  “Even magic.  It’s different here.  Rawer.  More… _real_ ,” he scoffed under his breath, shoving his hands in his hair in frustration.  “If it wasn’t for Benjen and Balerion, there would be days I would doubt my first life ever happened at all, so different is it from the one I know now.”

“There is a reason why the Dothraki believe only the souls of children are chosen to be reborn, my young rider.”  Aemon counseled him, as he had for the last three generations of Targaryens before him.  “The minds of children are easily changed.  But try and alter the heart and mind of a man, of a warrior?”  Aemon shook his head at this folly.  “It would be a man in ten-thousand that could withstand such a thing.  Your wild wolf is an easier creature, simpler in many ways.  From your tales he always has been.  He’ll never forget anymore than you will what came before, but he doesn’t fight or rail against what _is_ now either.”

“I can’t be anything other than what I am, Uncle-Maester.”  Harry told him, pain and passion entwined throbbing in his voice.  “I was,” he struggled a moment then decided upon a word.  “ _Designed_ to fight injustice.  To take on the world, no matter the odds.”

“To chase out the darkness, yes.”  Aemon was amused.  For all that in practice Rhaegar and Jaeherys were two very different men, at their hearts they fought the same battles, each in his own way.

Rhaegar took on the evils of men with laws and justice and reform, sprinkled with the occasional foray disguised as a minstrel in the Hook to sing and hear of what the smallfolk spoke.

Jaeherys faced them with fire and sword and battle where laws and justice and reform simply would not be enough.

Sometimes, as Aemon had cause to learn in his soon-to-be one hundred years of life, one had to burn a corrupted wound or field to ashes in order for fresh new growth to take hold.

They would change the world, his young dragons, Jaeherys with flame and Rhaegar with growth.

And together all shall prosper.

“Put a sword in a man’s hand, and he becomes a beast.”  Aemon said.  “If you wish to know the measure of a man, give him a taste of power and see what he does with it.  The gods have given you more than a mere _taste_ of power, Jaeherys.  You’ve made your start with the Stepstones, but the world will not be able to take your measure until you finish what you’ve begun.”

Harry mused on that for a long time, then asked: “Would you like me to bring you anything from Valyria, Uncle-Maester?”

“Just yourself, my young rider.”  Aemon chuckled, reaching over with unerring accuracy and patting him on the leg.  “Just yourself.”


	10. Weyr

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

_Don’t only practice your art, but force your way into its secrets, for it and knowledge can raise men to the Divine. – Ludwig von Beethoven_

**Chapter Nine: Weyr**

_The Fortress of Bloodstone, Fifth Moon of 295 AC_

“How long are you planning to be gone?”  Tyrion asked his friend as the Three Terrors met atop the high tower of Bloodstone that Jaeherys and Benjen had turned their magic to making a haven for the dragons, much as they had done through stonemasons and magic for King’s Landing.  If the Dance had accomplished nothing else, it made the new crop of dragonriders viciously paranoid regarding the safety of their partners.

Gods be good, no dragon in Westeros would ever know what it was to be chained.

“Hard to say.”  Harry admitted as he clasped arms with Tyrion before turning and being snatched up into an embrace by Benjen, who if Harry didn’t know better had a suspicious glisten in his quicksilver eyes.  “Could be only a few weeks.  Could be a year.  I won’t know until I get there.”

There.

Valyria.

A smoking ruin of that was once the greatest city in the world, broken and destroyed by the eruption of their infamous Fourteen, the volcanoes they harnessed to build their great city out of magic and dragonglass.

“Why aren’t I coming with you?”  Benjen demanded once again.  “A Targaryen Prince alone in the world except for his dragon is one of the most _dangerous_ things in the world – and not just for you.  You could use my sword if not my magic.  You know what the tales say of Valyria better than any of us.”

“The man doesn’t lie.”  Tyrion pointed out with a far-too-blasé tone that made it clear _he_ wasn’t happy about it either, but had surrendered the field to one more likely to get a positive result.  Not that Tyrion hadn’t argued _both_ occasional-idiots down more times than he could remember, but when Jaeherys got that _particular_ glint in his emerald-green eyes, Benjen was the only one who could reach him.

“I need you here, both of you.”  Harry reminded them of the plans that’d been weeks in the making.  “I can’t trust Saan on his own and Davos isn’t accustomed to life on the right side of the law yet.”

“Yes, yes.”  Tyrion waved an airy ring-clad hand.  “I’ll teach the smuggler to read and do his sums and give thanks to his grace Prince Jaeherys Targaryen, amen.  Dull.”

All three of them had commissioned rings upon Rhaegar’s decision to grant Harry his cadet branch from Qohor in Essos, where the finest smiths remained to this day – including those who could reshape Valyrian steel.  Fashioned in the likenesses of their dragons, Tyrion’s made from rich red-gold with golden eyes, Benjen’s a silver set with smoke-grey diamonds for scales and eyes, and Harry’s of Valyrian steel with light-emerald eyes, said rings had quickly become the fashion for dragonriders with Rhaegar asking after the Qohor artisans who had made them.  Within a day the description of the other four dragons and measures of the finger each would be worn on were winging from King’s Landing to Qohor.

A sign of their weyr, not unlike the Valyrian dragonlords of old.

Harry arched a brow at a sulking Benjen, though he wasn’t allowed to stay that way long as Inanna nudged him in the back with her nose and made him stagger and laugh.

“Fine,” Benjen gave a great sigh and rolled his eyes, even as he wrapped one arm around Inanna’s snout and scratched at the scales between her dark-smoke eyes.  “We’ll go off and play dissolute second-son and his pet dragon in Lys and Tyrosh and Myr.  I’m not to be held responsible if we get into trouble mind.”  Benjen half-threatened.  “And Pentos is your problem.”

With the news of Prince Jaeherys Targaryen not just _hatching_ dragons – though a fallacy it was the common belief – but using them successfully in his campaign in the Stepstones, invitations for one of the dragonriders of Westeros to visit the so-called “daughters” of Old Valyria had pour into both Bloodstone and King’s Landing.

And other than the Dowager Queen who would sooner set _herself_ ablaze than play mummer for their entertainment and Viserys who was needed at Summerhall to guard the dragon eggs that had indeed been found in the depths of both Dragonstone and Winterfell – though no one ever _planned_ to tell the Starks about the latter, with only Benjen any the wiser as he’d smuggled them out in the first place – the Three Terrors were the only ones who could be spared for the task.

Letting them _see_ , letting them _know_ , was one thing.

Giving them access to the King and/or Queen of Westeros was another entirely and none of them would stand for it.

Harry would deal with it himself, but he wasn’t the sort of person that easily inspired complacency in recent months with the open acknowledgement of the dragons’ return being at heart his doing and his successful taking of the Stepstones.

Benjen, for all that he denied it, actually _liked_ being wined and dined and pandered to every now and again…especially when he used said wining and dining and pandering to learn secrets that might come in handy later.  As he was also taking Nymeria Sand with him while her sister Obara remained in the Stepstones, between them Harry hoped to return to solid news of the current intrigues and games of the closest Essosi city-states to his new foothold in that continent of the Stepstones.  The only thing that would make the progress through the city-states more effective would be for Oberyn to join them, but neither Nym or Benjen would enjoy that.

“Patroni every week, I promise.”  Harry reassured them and both his friends grew forlorn at the tasks that awaited each of them – and the separation required by them.

“You’d better.”  Benjen clapped him on the shoulder, squeezing once before passing over the backpack they’d put their heads together to explain to a leatherworker in King’s Landing.

“Or what?”  Harry half-teased, knocking shoulders with Benjen and grinning down at Tyrion as he shrugged the black-leather pack on over top the duster made of the same material the leatherworker had also managed, Harry ordering a pair more to fit Benjen and Tyrion as well, along with fitted leather masks lined with silk, both pieces designed to protect their skin on long journeys on dragonback.

“Or,” Tyrion smirked with a drawl.  “We’ll tell your mother on you and then accompany the Dowager Queen to retrieve her wayward middle son from his own idiocy.”

Harry scoffed, rolling his bright green eyes even as he tucked his hair that had been fashioned into a thick braid made of dozens of smaller braids down his back, lifting first mask and then hood as he easily ascended Balerion’s wing to perch between the great black’s shoulders, a cushioning charm and a sticking charm doing the job of his saddle.

A wave of his hand to his friends, Balerion nudging snouts with first Inanna and then Vaiva, and they took wing, course set for the remains of Old Valyria…and whatever awaited them there.

“A hundred dragons that he’s gone a turn and comes back with treasures beyond measure.”  Benjen wagered as the pair flew out of sight into the east.

Tyrion snorted.

“Two hundred that it’s closer to a full year than a turn and comes back King of Valyria.”

“I’ll match that.”  Benjen decided after a moment.  “Say goodbye to your gold, Tyrion.”

The Imp rolled his eyes and wandered over to Vaiva for some _intelligent_ conversation, as Benjen’s banter was only holding off his melancholy by a thread and Tyrion to his ever-lasting frustration had yet to learn to tolerate the infernal _brooding_ that his best-friends and their families so excelled at on demand.

…

 _Valyria_.

It called out to adventures with a siren’s song since the Doom, thousands lost to her ruined shores.

Magic and treasure, danger and dragons, all of them equal in the fires they could light in a man’s breast at the very mention of them, let alone the vast wealth of them that are supposed to lay under ash and dust just _waiting_ to be claimed.

Harry wasn’t drawn to the ruined peninsula by greed or adventure or some magical drive, but a simple understanding of economics.

Wars cost money, weapons needed steel for forging, and magic – if he didn’t want to drain his core – was best used in places of old power.  Places like Valyria that had harbored pyromancers for centuries before the Doom.  It was the last bastion of old power in the Known World that Harry could access with anything resembling ease, unless he wanted to dare the ice-filled winds Beyond the Wall, the Shadow Lands or Asshai or Stygai, or the House of the Undying in Qarth.

To give them credit where it was due, the Andals had done a hell of a job stamping out much of the native magic of Westeros.

But that was alright.

It simply made the few remaining conclaves of power such as the North and Dragonstone all the more powerful for surviving the purge of magical blood carried out between the Faith and the Citadel.

Harry had no time for vengeance for the lost peoples of magic when there were _living_ people living in chains and collars from their first breath to their last.

 _One_ atrocity at a time.

And atrocity was very much the correct word for what had been carried out by the dragonlords of Valyria against _both_ of their sapient species of slaves: men and dragons.  The Ghiscari taught them slavery.  Only for their students to outgrow their tutors and bring them to ruin in the process.

Harry could not change the past and undo what had been done to the dragons.

He _could_ deal with the remnants of the Ghiscari and Valyrian empires and their slavers and slave-masters.

Which brought him back around to the beginning: wars were expensive things to finance.

It only seemed _just_ that the ruins of the Freehold finance the war to free the peoples they had enslaved centuries before.

Balerion knew of his plans, but Harry had gotten the feeling from their discussions that the ancient dragon had his own reasons for being so quick to agree to fly his bonded rider to the ruins of his hatching-place.

Still, trying to pry a secret from a dragon was like prying barnacles from sea-stacks: hardly worth the effort.

The Black Dread would confide in him in time.

And even with Balerion’s great and ever-growing size, they had time for the silence to wear away at Balerion’s nerves.

Or it wouldn’t.

Either way, Harry imagined he didn’t have long to wait to find out what the matter was.

Twelve hundred miles – or something like it – laid between Bloodstone and Valyria depending on the path he took.

Were Balerion a raven or a bat, and Harry another rider, perhaps twelve hundred miles or more would be a daunting time to spend in the air.

But a dragon was not a bird or any other flying creature and Harry was well accustomed from his time as a Seeker (much like Benjen’s time as a Beater) and accustomed to flying at high speed.  Anyone who thought spending several hours upon a broom able to sustain speeds of up to (or more) than a hundred and fifty miles an hour didn’t _quickly_ gain the strength in their core, legs, and arms to maintain their seat was a fool or had zero understanding of the human body.  A shield spell could protect his eyes and the skin of his face that wasn’t sheltered by the rest of his armor, but without the muscles to back it up, Balerion or any other dragon would have to ameliorate their speed.  Vaiva knew this, as even with his custom saddle Tyrion could not tolerate the speeds that Benjen and Harry enjoyed, and protected her bonded rider accordingly.  And with a cushioning and sticking spells, a dragon was much more comfortable a seat than a broom, even a Firebolt.

They would make Valyria in less than a day.

Dragons had no use for horses or ships, considering them slow, cumbersome forms of transport.

Which spoke to what they thought of the usefulness of a human’s two legs for locomotion.

There was a reason why dragonriders were always depicted as strong, whether with thick muscles or lean and Harry had insisted that the new weyr of house Targaryen follow a code of not attempting the bond until a possible rider had reached a certain age and maturity – physical and mental.

His nephew Aegon, Prince of Dragonstone was near enough of an age to bond, beyond which there were others with Targaryen or Stark blood who might attempt the dragon eggs at Summerhall.

But that much was Rhaegar’s problem.

Harry made the rules in this case by dint of his being the first rider of the weyr and bonded to Balerion the largest and oldest of the weyr dragons.

Others had to worry about enforcing and implementing them.

Which as Harry had only insisted upon two measures for the safety of both riders and dragons, he did not think Rhaegar would find it too onerous to carry out.

The first was the age and needed maturity.

The second was the oath.

If you were chosen to bond to a dragon, you were inducted into the weyr, including bonding oaths to loyalty to the weyr – not the king or the Seven Kingdoms, the weyr.  An oath that came first before all others.  Lyanna, surprisingly enough, had found more fault with the oath than Rhaegar.  It was understandable.  In the end, she was a she-wolf.  She understood the value of the pack, but had never known a need to reinforce the loyalties of her kin through oaths.

Dragons might not have existed in living memory, but the memory of the Dance never died.

Moreover, Harry would never allow it to happen again, no matter what occurred in the game of thrones.

…

“ _We’re nearly there.”_   Balerion told Harry through their bond, his voice a much quieter presence in the living world than in the in-between of the dreaming.

Which was good for Harry, as he didn’t fancy a migraine every time Balerion needed to speak to him.

“ _That’s good._ ”  Harry shifted a bit.  Even with spells, keeping his seat for hours and hours at the speeds Balerion could reach became a strain after a time.  “ _I think I lost permanent feeling in my thighs over the Orange Shore, or maybe Volantis.”_

 _“Bitch bitch bitch.”_ Balerion snarked back, rolling his dinner-plate sized green eyes even though Harry couldn’t see it.  He still _knew_ it from the bond and that was all that mattered.  “ _Better a pair of dead legs for a few hours than being stuck on one of those floating pyres for weeks.”_

 _“Yes, oh Balerion the great and wonderful_.”  Harry shot back, holding in a laugh at the dragon’s description of a ship.  Even the _Black Dread_ , which had been designed for Balerion’s comfort in mind when he wanted to sleep didn’t merit any approval from the black dragon.  “ _You are always right.”_

 _“Just so._ ”  Balerion gave a wordless sniff, a gesture he’d picked up after spending too much time around Zareen’s person Rhaella.  “ _Things would be much easier if you followed that rule all the time instead of whenever it pleases you or you want to be an arsehole as Vaiva’s Tyrion would say.”_

A shiver racked Harry’s body as they passed through an invisible barrier or spell-shield or boundary off the shore of the western-most island ruins of Valyria, the same that was home to both the western-most city of Beltarys and the western arm of the volcanic range that was home to the Fourteen Flames, the volcanoes that some texts said had given birth to the first dragons.

Others disputed that, claiming they came from the far-east beyond Asshai and the Shadow Lands, while others yet had their own tales and legends of the origins of dragons.

Harry personally enjoyed the idea that the moon was a giant dragon-egg and should it fly too close to the sun it will crack and allow the dragons within to pour out once more, as it had with the birth of the first dragons.

 _“What was that?”_ He asked Balerion, as the great dragon had shown no surprise to his rider’s reaction.  Glancing back over his shoulder, he estimated that the barrier – or whatever – that had felt as if someone had tried, but failed, to shove a handful of ice into the very center of his chest sat about a dozen feet from the black-sand beach of the island.  Or perhaps, it felt as if…  _“Like someone tried to summon my spirit from beyond the grave.”_   Like the chill a spirit had felt the longer they had stayed in his first world when summoned by the Resurrection Stone.

Then it clicked.

“ _Death magic_.”  He breathed, both in his mind and aloud.

“ _Now you begin to see why I waited for you, my friend.”_ Balerion told him, as unshaken by Harry’s revelation as he tended to be anything and everything else.  Beyond a good fight against another dragon, taking a mate, or fear for their kind or their rider, there wasn’t much that could be so great and terrible an issue as to actually _bother_ Balerion or any dragon really once they were fully grown and fledged.  “ _The Doom was no natural thing, but a working of terrible magics.  To correct it…”_

 _“You needed a being_ capable _of facing terrible magics and coming out the other side.”_ Harry filled in the blanks, some of the missing pieces of his rebirth in Westeros beginning to fall into place.

Would he _never_ escape from the meddling of the gods?

In his first life, he’d had no real beliefs or faith in anything but magic.

Westeros was a different world entirely.

And when one spent enough time in and out of godswoods with his Northern friends, and felt the _watchfulness_ that lingered there, even as far south as King’s Landing and Dragonstone and beyond, you began to at least _question_ even if you weren’t of a nature that was inclined to believe.  Harry had been through too much – in both his lives – to doubt the existence of fate.  Beyond that, death was both his first and his oldest friend.  Anything else…well.  Those were matters for various priests and maesters to debate, not a dragonrider from the Red Keep.

Closing his eyes, trusting that Balerion would warn him if his attention was needed as the dragon carried them further into the wreckage of the Doom towards the main city of Valyria for which the entire Freehold had come to be named, Harry felt deep within him for his magical core, that remnant of his first life that had clung to his soul when it passed through the in-between and into his new body with his new life, the same as Benjen’s had.  Souls _were_ magic after all.  Wizarding souls just had a bit extra and the ability to be channeled into works great and small.  It was why certain branches of magic: blood, death, and soul in particular; could be so dangerous to attempt.

And someone hadn’t just _attempted_ death magic in Valyria, he soon found as he meditated upon the aura and leylines of the former peninsula that was now separated from the mainland Essos by the Smoking Sea that had poured into the fault caused by the mass eruptions and from itself by the same, islands being made from what had once been a cohesive, sprawling city-state that was fashioned from dragonglass and surrounded by rivers and lakes of lava to help channel the Valyrians’ pyromancy.

They’d done such a thorough job of using death magic to curse Valyria that even now four hundred years later the volcanoes still erupted, and the land still shook, along with what he could tell was a blood-curse on anyone who would live in or even _near_ the cursed land.

Which rather explained the “monsters” that filled the cities of Mantarys, Elyria, and Telos and haunted the demon road, black cliffs of ruined Bhorash, and the Isle of Cedars.

They were the closest lands that hadn’t been directly destroyed by the Doom…but were still affected by the curse.

 _“You dragons don’t ask for much, do you?”_ Harry asked Balerion sarcastically, even as he found the humor in the situation.  _“This is far beyond one wizard to fix.”_

 _“One_ wizard _, yes.”_ Balerion told him simply, flight slowing as he banked down through the air in a slow spiraling curve towards the central “island” of Valyria, where both the original city-state and its southern neighbor Nephtys had once stood proudly.  The dragon wasn’t angling for the ruined cities, however, but what stood fifty miles to the north of the old city of Valyria: twin volcanoes, the tallest and largest of any other in Essos, each so large that if placed side-by-side with the famed “mother of mountains” in the Great Grass Sea that it would be hard to tell which was larger.  _“But you are not merely a wizard anymore, Harry-Jaeherys.  And you are not without those who would help you lift this taint – if only for the good of all who once called Valyria home.”_

Harry got a funny feeling in his chest.

It wasn’t the same as the ice-in-his-soul feeling that crossing into the tainted lands of Valyria had given him.

No, it was more along the lines of what he’d felt when he’d watched the memories of a man who he’d have sworn hated him to his final breath and realized just _how much_ planning and plotting it had taken to get him to stand unarmed and allow a madman to shoot him point-blank with the Killing Curse.

Not quite the same, it wasn’t the sinking sense of betrayal or being plotted against he’d known all too well in his first life.

More, like his life thus far: from the moment he was placed in the arms of Queen Rhaella Targaryen to the one where he touched a dragon egg and its dragon chose him; all of it had been leading up to this point.

It was a feeling like fate.

He wrinkled his nose.

That meddling harpy would _never_ let him alone at this rate.

He didn’t _know_ if fate was a true god the way he somehow _knew_ that death was more than the mere end of a life.

But he did know that if it was, it was female, and he must have pissed her off somehow in a former life – one that thankfully he didn’t have any memories of, unlike the two, this and the last, that he currently had cluttering up his head.

Moreover, if fate was a being, she was laughing her arse off at him.

Especially when Balerion angled his wings and came to a landing in a cavern mouth inset high in the largest volcano the Valyria had to boast.  Called the “First Flame” in modern texts regarding the destroyed peninsula, the Valyrians called it “Mysha” or mother, as they believed dragons were the children of the great volcano and its kin in the massive volcanic range.

Balerion walked on all fours, his wing-limbs well able to withstand his weight as all dragons could do.  But why would they want to, when flying was so much easier and faster?  They weren’t met to travel upon land.  Otherwise why would they have two legs and two wings instead of four legs like most four-limbed species?

The cavern, despite being carved from a volcanic mountain and made of dragonglass veined with rich metals such as gold and silver and copper, glowed red from the lava flows in the interior of the First Flame.  Red light was good light for seeing in the dark, especially for human eyes that weren’t as adapted to night-sight as a dragon’s were.  And what Harry saw in that cavern – hells, just in the mouth of it alone – nearly defied explanation.

Great carvings of dragons and men and creatures great and small lined the walls, while the ceiling showed the night sky with the sun and the moon cycling around one another.

Strange magical runes were carved into the obsidian, in a language he had never seen before in either life.

But they did not feel threatening as the cursed and tainted magic of Valyria did.

In fact, Harry took his first easy breath since Balerion had crossed into Valyria upon being fully inside the cavern and away from the mouth of it, even with the brimstone and sulfur thick in the air from the shafts leading to the internal volcanic structures.

Balerion had brought him to the last untainted stronghold of Old Valyria, a place that – if Harry was understanding the nostalgia-kissed memories flashing like lightning through his friend’s mind – Balerion knew long before he’d been taken to Dragonstone by Aenar Targaryen with the other four living dragons (at that time) of House Targaryen’s dragonlords.

He didn’t just know it, Harry realized a moment later as Balerion remembered their bond and slowed down a few memories in particular to explain-without-explaining.

He loved it.

This cavern was his home.

His place of hatching with his other nest-mates.

Balerion had brought him to the rookery of the Valyrian dragon weyrs, the birthplace of their bond with the dragonriders of old.

And as Harry heard the sound of scales on stone realized another thing.

They weren’t alone.

…

“At some point.”  Harry commented as he stared up at the three dragons high above him – including Balerion.  “I’m going to stop being surprised at what I find in this new world.”

Today, however, was _not_ that day.

Upon hearing the sounds of scales and claws upon stone, Harry had tensed though Balerion had told him to stay upon his back as they made their way further into the cavern of the First Flame.  Told him to stay calm.  That all would be well: they were expected, both Harry and Balerion and their hosts.

It would have been nice for _Harry_ to know as such, but then Balerion was ever a dragon to keep his secrets dear, not like the openness that was between Syrexian and Viserys or Vaiva and Tyrion.

Those dragons were young dragons, undergoing their first lives.

They knew nothing of the betrayals and weakness of men other than what they’d been told by their elder kin.

 _These_ dragons knew well the follies of men – especially men or women of power such as princes and dragonlords.

Harry wasn’t a dragonlord, rather a chosen and bonded dragon rider, but he _was_ a prince.

He understood Balerion’s reticence.

And that at least part of it was just the black’s nature rather than a distrust of his chosen rider.

He imagined that the great elder dragons what towered over Balerion’s large form knew the foibles of men even better than Balerion did or perhaps ever had, a supposition that gained merit as Balerion introduced them.

The black with yellow eyes who was so massive that he seemed to have _become_ the shadows rather than just his scales helping him blend in, maybe as much as twice the size of Balerion’s spirit-form in the in-between of the dreaming, though it was impossible to guess at the black’s true size given that Harry couldn’t so much as locate its haunches let alone tail.

Its name had no easy translation to either the common tongue or Valyrian, but the closest Balerion could come was “Terror” before giving a draconic shrug and telling him:

_“The smallfolk of Dragonstone once called Terror, The Cannibal as he preferred the flesh of enslaved dragons to all others.”_

The Cannibal.

Harry shook his head in wonder.  The Cannibal had lived in the deepest and highest cavern in the Dragonmont on Dragonstone, with some tales having it already living there before Aenar Targaryen sailed from Valyria to that place.  None could state when it hatched or if it died, only that it lived and then disappeared having never taken a rider in the wake of the Dance.

Harry turned to the brown, which in the red light of the First Flame was a pretty russet but that he would venture in the sunlight might be described as _mud brown_.

“You wouldn’t happen to have been known at one time as Sheepstealer, would you?”  He asked, already half-knowing the answer.

The brown nodded its head.

Gods.

The Cannibal they couldn’t place in time but the Sheepstealer that bonded to a “dragonseed” or bastard of Valyrian descent by the name of Nettles, a girl that eventually took the husband of Queen Rhaenyra, Prince Daemon to bed and was accused of treason for it, was known.

Sheepstealer was between two hundred and forty and two hundred and fifty years old.

Older than Balerion had lived before his first death, but not so old and ancient as Terror.

But not quite as large as Balerion had grown, Harry decided as he eyed the brown.  A bit smaller.  Which given that Balerion had been over two hundred yards long from nose to tail, that wasn’t saying a whole hell of a lot.

“ _The brown prefers Brier.”_ Balerion supplied.  _“It was the name her girl gave her before she died.”_

“Well,” Harry took a breath and refused to quake under the eyes of the closest things to true gods he’d ever encountered in his life.  He could see, if all dragons used to live so long and grow so large as Terror, why the Valyrian had worshipped them…until they didn’t.  “You wanted me here, enough to have Balerion carry me hence when I would have otherwise returned to my first life.  What need have you of me?”

Terror drew in a breath, its chest rumbling and shaking the cavern, but not knocking Harry from his feet.

 _“I was not one of the weak or silly dragons to fall for the dragon-binders and their spells.”_ The thundering voice could only be Terror’s, ripped through Harry’s mental shields like those claws would tin-foil, leaving blood dripping from his nose and his equilibrium at last staggering.  “ _I saw the hearts of them and found them unworthy.  And I was right.  For less than a generation passed before I escaped the spell-chains of the dragon-binders than the Doom came, brought about in blood and death and vengeance by the conquered against the dragon-binders.  They grew arrogant.  Slaughtered their mages in their in-fighting.  And on the day when a single mage came and made a terrible sacrifice to bring them low, they had naught the power to stop the cataclysm.”_   There was more than a little sense of satisfaction in Terror’s mental tones.  _“But I was young.  I could not foresee the prize that my kin – even those who were weak and silly and foolish – paid to bring them low.”_ One massive claw slammed against the ground of the cavern in a motion akin to a human thudding their fist against a surface for emphasis.  _“A dragon_ is _what your kind call magic.  They cannot_ do _or_ undo _magic for themselves.  They are.”_

 _“We cannot undo the death magic that ruined our homeland.”_ Brier’s voice was much quieter, very soothing in its aspect after the thundering mental touch of Terror.  _“Not alone.”_

“I do not have the power to do what you ask.”  Harry told them, never feeling more helpless in his life than in the face of their combined grief – save that last night where he watched as Ron clutched Fred to his chest and cried, the rest of the Weasleys with him.  “Even if I knew where to begin.”

 _“You misunderstand, young one.”_ Brier told him.  _“You do not need the power, Terror and I have more than enough and are tired of this world beside.  We awaited Balerion’s return with our last hope and now he is come.  We wish to rest.  We will give you the power you need for this task and another.  And then we will rest, leave the fate of this world in the claws of Balerion and his kin and the hands of you and yours.”_

…

After speaking longer with the ancient elder dragons, Harry slumped down onto the pallet he’d pulled from his pack and resized.

Bless Benjen and his skill with expansion charms, Harry had never quite learned the knack.

Shrinking and featherweight charms were more his comfort zone along with offensive and defensive spells.

Back to the wall as Balerion hunkered down facing him, Harry stared into eyes filled with ancient and terrible knowledge and asked:

“Did you know?”

 _“I knew they existed.”_ Balerion rumbled.  _“I knew they wished to see us regarding an important manner.  I did not know they would ask this thing of you or I would never have brought you here.”_

There was that at least.

“Blood magic.”  Harry laughed helpless in the face of the irony.  He’d lived thirty-eight years between his two lives.  Seventeen the first and now twenty-one thus far the second.  And in all that thirty-eight years he’d dipped his toe into sacrificial blood magic exactly once.

When he died to protect all those he left behind him in Wizarding Great Britain.

That form of blood magic was the easiest sort.

It needed nothing from him but his willing sacrifice.

Now he was being asked to oversee that sacrifice of a creature much greater and more powerful than he will ever be.  Than any man has ever been or will be.  It was more than he could bear.

But he would have to bear it.

Terror and Brier weren’t asking.

They were telling.

Harry was not so selfish a creature as to force another to live when they’d lost the will to do so, and neither would he risk what Terror might do if he refused.

Not to him.

But to the world.

He had a feeling at if Terror wasn’t allowed to do his part to save his kind, he’d do his part to destroy the race that had ruined them instead.

Then something registered for the first time in the wake of the enormity of what was being asked of him.

“Balerion?”  Harry asked.  “What did Brier mean _for this task and another_?”

 _“Now that I did know something of.”_   Balerion told him.  _“And I have a feeling it might make all the difference in how you look upon what is being asked of you.  It’s been a long day.  Sleep.  I will show you the second task the elder dragons have bestowed upon you in the morning.”_

_…_

 


	11. Valyria

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

_“They held each other close and turned their backs upon the end._  
The hills that split asunder and the black that ate the skies;  
The flames that shot so high and hot that even dragons burned;  
Would never be the final sights that fell upon their eyes.  
A fly upon a wall, the waves the sea wind whipped and churned —  
The city of a thousand years, and all that men had learned;  
The Doom consumed it all alike, and neither of them turned…”

Poem recited by Jorah Mormont and Tyrion Lannister, Game of Thrones S5E5

**Chapter Ten: Valyria**

Harry, after two lives filled with a need to be awake early in the morning whether for chores, lessons, or weapons practice, rose before Balerion or the other elder dragons.

Taking a deep breath, he sank into the lotus position and let everything he learned the day before fall away, then he rose.

Standing, he let the fingers of his right hand trail over the brow scales of Balerion, feeling the heat that came from within the great black dragon every moment of every day.

He knew what his answer would be.

They knew it as well.

But not yet.

Not today.

Rubbing away the sleep from his eyes, Harry flicked his fingers and had a cleansing spell rushing over his body, then another re-braided his hair, this time with a silver dragon clasp at the end of the tail.  On soft feet he padded away from the chamber Balerion had chosen for them to sleep in the ancient rookery, making his way by memory through the twisting caverns to the mouth that looked out over the ruins lands and red skies of Valyria.  Five thousand years of knowledge and culture, gone in a day along with tens of thousands of lives and thousands of dragons.  Gone.  All because of a single mage with a vendetta.

He wished he could find it in himself to blame that lone mage but he couldn’t.

Harry understood their rage all too well for that.

That didn’t mean he _accepted_ what the mage had done…but he could understand it.

It didn’t make it right.

It certainly didn’t make it just with the death toll of the innocents likely outnumbering the guilty in multiples.

But he understood it nonetheless, much as he understood the drive that had Terror living far beyond the threshold of any dragon before them to see his kind if not restored, at least given a chance to survive.

It was the same drive, after all, that had led Harry alone with only a trio of ghosts for company into the spellfire of a madman, and the drive that had his mother do the same only without the ghosts to save his life.

But before he would agree to attempt something far beyond his knowledge, skill, and magical ability, he would take a damn hard look at what was left behind because of a mage with a vendetta.  He would burn it into his memory.  Drive it into his occlumency walls with chisle and hammer and fire until it could never be forgotten.

Let it live there forever after to _remind_ him what came of too much rage and too little thought in a being with power.

Remind him of what he could become if he doesn’t take care.

There were hundreds of people in the world, perhaps even thousands, who were dangerous beyond measure but restrained themselves because they also had a thing, whether another person, a mission, a code, even something as simple as a pet, which kept them happy and restrained.  Take that thing from them and they would leave a trail of blood, tears, and destruction behind them until they were stopped.  One way or another.

Harry couldn’t _afford_ to be one of those people, no matter how liberating it must be: to rest all responsibility for your own actions on something other than yourself and your own heart and mind and soul.

More, the _world_ couldn’t afford for him to become one of those people.

And the shades of Valyria’s Doom would be there to remind him should ever come a time where he forgot.

Spinning on his heel with the imagine of a ruined street he remembered passing over in Beltarys on the way to the First Flame, Harry disappeared from the mouth of the cavern with a soft _crack_ to begin the business of picking up hammer and chisel to start crafting that monument to what he couldn’t afford to become in his mind.

…

“They held each other close,” Harry murmured the poem that many maesters taught their charges when learning of the Doom of Valyria as passed through streets and buildings of great and wonderous design that were melted from lava or acid rain, covered over with four centuries of dust and falling ash.  “And turned their backs upon the end.”  In high towers and low cottages alike he saw them with his own eyes.  Bodies encased from the eruptions, still clinging to each other.  Parents holding their children.  Lovers clutching each other.

All dead.

All gone.

From oldest elder to youngest newborn babe.

All.

According to the histories, not a single soul survived the Doom from any of the main cities, and those that did in the outlying cities such as Telos and Mantarys were cursed, though they knew it not either then or now, for all that some whispered as such in the current age.

“The hills that split asunder and the black that ate the skies,” he continued, crouching to study a massive fault line that had dug itself through what looked like a main thoroughfare.  “The flames that shot so high and hot that even dragons burned,” yes, there was evidence of that too.  Skeletons of black-boned dragons that laid broken where they fell.  Some from so high in the sky that parts of their bones powdered upon colliding with the ground.  “Would never be the final sights that fell upon their eyes.”

Balerion found him though their bond, landing beside him as he stood among the ruins of a culture that for five thousand years had been the best at almost everything, save for mercy or compassion.

“These violent delights,” he looked up as the two other elder dragons landed beside Balerion, Terror taking out more than a few of the ruins in the process, Harry just arching a brow at the sheer mass of the black.  There in the midst of the still-standing destruction, he didn’t have it in him to feel awe or terror.

Just grief and mourning for the mistakes of a few powerful men that had led to a destruction so vast and horrible Harry struggled to find any comparison to that of his first life.

“ _Shall have violent ends_.”  Balerion finished the saying, familiar with it from Harry’s memories of his first life.

“I found it fitting, given…”  He wordlessly gestured to the three dragons and then all around them.

“ _Quite_.”  Terror’s voice was not quite so painful today, perhaps beginning to see that Harry wasn’t the same breed of man that had enslaved his people.

 _“Have you made a decision, young one?”_ Brier asked, unable to stop from sniffing him over for damage, which was answered with a wry smile from the man.

“Yes, I will help you.”  Harry sighed, running one hand down his braid in a nervous gesture he’d never quite learned to tame, the equivalent of his scruffing his hands through his short bird’s-nest in his first life.  “But I have no idea how.”

“ _Valyria wasn’t destroyed in a day, though it seemed that way._ ”  Balerion told him.  _“First, you must study.”_

 _“We will help you._ ”  Brier assured him.

 _“And when the day comes where you are ready, we will help you then as well.”_ Terror finished, then with slow, ponderous movements took flight once more, visibly straining from the effort it took.

Harry, unable to help himself, shot a lightening charm at the great elder black, and Terror whipped on him a moment later as he felt himself once more move with an ease he’d left behind him a century before.

The golden-haired man laughed, Balerion and Brier joining him.

He didn’t think he’d ever seen a dragon – let alone one that big – look flabbergasted before.

…

_King’s Solar, Maegor’s Holdfast, the Red Keep_

“I don’t like this plan, my love.”  Lyanna warned her husband with no-little amount of exasperation.  “It’s not going to go the way you want it to, no matter what the Small Council says.”

“And why shouldn’t it?”  Rhaegar arched a brow at his wife.  “I am still the King of Westeros, it is within my rights…”

“Rights aside.”  Lyanna interrupted, slashing one hand through the air as she tried to make him _see_.  “It’s a mistake.  One we could all pay for in a very dear way.  It’s not worth it.”

Why, oh why couldn’t she just make him _see?_

Where had her understanding of her beloved failed her?

“Enough.”  Rhaegar told her, holding up a hand.  “Jaeherys promised he would attend the tourney in honor of the boys gaining their knighthood in the new year.  I will have the proclamation ready to be sent out once he arrives.”

“You’re making a mistake.”  She whispered, eyes heartbroken.  “One that your people, _our_ people will end up paying for in fire and blood.”

…

_The First Flame, Valyria_

Study, Harry found, was an understatement.

He didn’t know who had brought the scrolls and texts to the rookery but given the great age of them he treated them with more than he would with a newborn child lest they crumble to dust in his hands.

Harry had been stunned when Balerion led him to the carved room filled with magical tools and texts, likely the selfsame room where the power to bind dragons had been discovered alongside harnessing pyromancy.

But not nearly as stunned as he had been when his companion showed him the promised second task before him.

…

“How far do the tunnels go?”  Harry asked as Balerion led him ever downward into the belly of the First Flame.

 _“To the womb of the world.”_ Balerion told him as they walked along the path.  It was too low in parts for Harry to ride, so they were moving at a crawl compared to his abilities in flight.  Times like this Balerion wished Harry’s shrinking spells were made for creatures of magic and not just objects like food or gold.  Would make the trip more comfortable for the dragon at least.

And he kinda wished he knew how fast he could fly with a smaller size and mature wings.

_“Don’t worry, young rider.  I won’t let the firewyrms get you.”_

“Your amusement fails to fill me with confidence.”  Harry snarked right back, sneering playfully up at the big bastard.  “You’d probably let me flail around until I was singed within an inch of death before coming to my rescue so you can laugh at me.”

 _“Probably.”_ Balerion snickered.  _“But I would save you nonetheless.”_

_“Prat.”_

_“Hairless primate.”_

_“Flying cinder-spark.”_

_“Sword swallower.”_

Harry snorted at that, losing the game of friendly insults in the process.

“Where’d you learn that one?”

“ _Inanna’s Benjen_.”  Balerion pranced a moment.  Even with two hundred years of life on his rider, he didn’t win this game very often.  Harry had had too much experience being insulted in his first life whereas Balerion due to his size and ability to breathe fire had never met a creature with such audacity before hatching for Harry.

“ _Of_ course you did.”  Harry sighed, shaking his head at that.

They turned serious a moment later as the tunnels abruptly widened, the carvings rougher – older – and made by claws and not men.

Dragons made them. 

Made them so long ago that not even Balerion or Terror could speak of when.

“ _This place is as close to holy for the dragons of Valyria as anything gets outside of flying free above the clouds.”_ Balerion told him, even his mental voice hushed as they passed through the wide halls.  “ _No man or woman has ever been here before.  Even for the strongest dragonlord, the heat was too great for them to survive.”_

Cooling charms were wonderful things.

Even so, Harry definitely felt one breath from being in a molten crucible.

The walls glowed, the lava behind the thick dragonglass giving off both the heat that would have roasted Harry without his spells and a dull red light, despite them having to be at least several miles within the tunnels of the First Flame.

 _“_ Where _are_ we?”  Harry asked, his voice on the verge of a gasp as they came out of the last turn and the dull red light became nearly blinding.

They stood upon a ledge overlooking what was nothing less than a sea of molten lava that reached the edge of his sight and beyond, but that wasn’t the entire source of the light.

Veins of precious metals reflected it back while rivers of gemstone formations refracted it, turning red light into every color of the rainbow.

And set into the walls were alcoves, only accessible by flight, each holding a thing far more precious than silver and more magical than even the deep purple and indigo Valyrian diamonds that only formed inside the Fourteen Flames.

Dragon eggs.

Dozens of them in every shade and color imaginable.

 _“I told you.  The tunnels lead to the womb of the world.  Every dragon mateship that was and now will be of Valyrian lines in the days before the dragon-bindings would bring a single egg here.”_ Balerion told him after long moments of Harry staring in awe.  _“Their first egg of their first clutch.  This is the rookery of the Firstborn, our womb of the world.”_

He knew, now, what Balerion had meant about this place being as close to holy as anything could be for beings made of flame and magic.

It was both their past…and their future.

 _“_ I don’t need magic to take them to Summerhall and await their riders.”  Harry pointed out shrewdly, having an inkling of what it was Terror and Brier had planned.  “Or at least, not the magic of blood sacrifice.  The expansion charm on my pack should be enough to hold them all.”

Balerion shook his great head.  _“That’s not what we’re asking for.  Not all of them are ready, some of them might never be.  But some have felt their riders come into the world who haven’t yet passed or are close to passing.”_  Balerion said that last with genuine regret.

Aemon Targaryen was as good a man as his great-great-nephews.

If any of his line had deserved the bond before Jaeherys was born, it was him.

But now…he was living on borrowed time.

No fledgling should have to farewell their rider after so short a time.

That egg is one that will remain in place unless or until Aemon was reborn.

“How many?”

 _“Thirteen.”_   Balerion gave a fang filled smile at Harry’s eye roll at the number.  _“They know who their riders are and will find them in due time, but not if they remain here and,”_

Harry cut him off.  “Not if they remain unhatched.”  He was afraid it was going to be something like that.  “How am I supposed to lead a weyr with thirteen unbonded dragons in it?  It goes against everything we’ve been telling Westeros for the last few years.”

 _“We’ll teach them.”_ Balerion told him simply.  _“They can join us in the dreaming lands, learn what they need to stay safe until their riders are found.  Or are old enough to bond them.  In the meantime, every single dragon would be willing to follow us on our adventures, to grow and learn while they wait.  Better a wait of a few years with the wind rushing over your scales than half-asleep in a cave.”_

“Thirteen hatchlings.”  Harry scrubbed his hands over his face.  “Plus a ritual to hatch them and remove the curse on Valyria.  Terror’s not asking for much are they?”

 _“I think they have a plan for the hatchling-protection problem at least.”_ Balerion shrugged, flexing his wings.  The taciturn bastard had addressed that worry with mother-hen Brier already.  _“Not that they’ve shared it.”_

“They made their reputation by _eating_ other dragons.”  Harry snorted.  “At this point I’m just happy he hasn’t decided I’d taste good crispy-fried with a side of Black Dread.”

 _“Point.”_  Balerion decided that was valid.  Though without Harry’s spells, he was certain he could outmaneuver Grumpy-Wings.  _“One of the eggs is Vermithor’s chosen rebirth.  He’ll help with the others or Inanna will have his wing-scales to decorate her nest.”_

“I guess we’re doing this then.”  Harry heaved a put-upon sigh, shrugging out of the pack Balerion had insisted on him bringing.  Well, now he knew why.  “Which eggs?  I’ll summon them.”

Balerion listed them off, pointing with a winged fore-claw when there were more than one of similar description.  Seeker’s reflexes still well-honed, Harry would summon-catch and then put each egg away in the bag before moving onto the next.  He’d been right.  Even with being magical the pack more than stood up to the heft of a baker’s dozen dragon eggs.

Stupid fate, stupid magical numbers.

The damned things just kept repeated.

If he was ever reborn again, he was hoping for a world that wasn’t obsessed with either the numbers seven or thirteen.

Damnit.

…

The ritual to both hatch the eggs and cleanse Valyria was much more work than a trek to the womb of the world and summoning some eggs.

It was no simple curse that had been laid upon the Freehold and the Fourteen Flames, neither would be unmaking it.  A task that wasn’t helped in the least by a trio of the Fourteen Flames being now underwater thanks to the splitting of the lands and the creation of the Smoking Sea.  Harry thanked his genes for making him more tolerant of heat and fire than a normal man or mage, lest _that_ dip in the sea might have ended much differently than him finding and memorizing the runes that had been etched into the caverns of the submersed volcanoes.

That little research trip was also Harry’s first look at a few of the “monsters” of Old Valyria.

The stonemen.

Not many – not _nearly_ as many that were said to haunt the Sorrows along the Rhoyne – but still some made their homes in the shattered ruins of the Smoking Sea.

Slow and lumbering thanks to their advanced greyscale, they were easily provoked and a single touch from a stone man could inflict the victim with the dreaded disease.  Few survived greyscale.  Harry’s little cousin Shireen, cousin Stannis’s daughter by flighty Selyse Florent was one.  A strong little girl, left with only a patch of deadened grey-scaled skin on her face to mark her survival as a babe of a disease that killed grown men with ease.

Harry had never met little Shireen until her grandfather Lord Steffon decided that he was “too old and cranky” – cousin Steffon’s words, not Harry’s – to continue serving on the Small Council, advising Rhaegar to give the post to his second-son Stannis, a man who had a good heart hidden under his discomfort with others but was the most honorable of his sons, over boisterous Robert, making it perhaps the first time in Stannis’s life where he was honored over his elder brother in whose shadow Stannis had often dwelled.  Honor and a good heart meant more to Rhaegar than a cheerful manner and being good with a warhammer in his Master of Laws.  The rest of the council had agreed, including Harry’s mother Rhaella who still sat-in on meetings to either help rule when her son was away at Dragonstone or visiting his lord or to help train the young princes and princesses royal when they became old enough to attend the meetings and learn what it took to rule Westeros.  Lyanna would attend at times as well, most notably when any matter regarding the North was at hand, giving a Northerner’s perspective that would have been missed otherwise, or likewise helping her good-mother train the future of the Targaryen line in the sheer amount of _work_ being a king or even an advisor was.

Stannis and his family had been made welcome to King’s Landing and the rooms traditionally given to the Master of Laws and his household in the Red Keep, including young Shireen.

A good and bright child, Shireen had been welcomed into the fold of the princesses and was now taught alongside them by Grand-Maester Aemon and the Queen, with Harry’s mother assisting whenever she was at court.

Rhaegar and Lyanna, Harry didn’t think, had ever been prouder of their children than when they’d opened their hearts and minds to Shireen, who had been lamentably isolated thus far in her life due to her mother’s “shame” over her disfigurement.

Harry never had liked the Florent wench, her treatment of her own daughter had simply cemented his disdain, and he found it no wonder that Stannis only attempted his “duty” to his wife and line once or twice a year as the servants’ gossip had it.

Stonemen, Harry discovered, were easy to provoke but easier still to kill so long as they didn’t swarm him, at which point he had no option but to switch from sword and steel to magic, his firewhip as effective against the stonemen as his old mentor’s had been against Inferi…and other than one being actual corpses instead of merely _almost_ corpses, Harry didn’t see a hell of a lot of difference between the two.

Months passed with unsettling quickness as Harry studied under the tutelage of the elder dragons, learning not just about the magics of his new world and how to combine them with that of his old, but of dragon lore and histories lost in the Doom of the world.  He learned of the horrors of Sothoryos…and the rich rewards one would find there if you braved the massive continent and made it back alive and whole.  Perhaps a challenge to set before another.  His own children should he ever settle down and have them, or perhaps Rhaegar’s younger sons.

Lyanna would skin him _alive_ if he even mentioned such a thing to her daughters, with Rhaegar not far behind her and breathing fire.

Blood magics and shadow magics, death magics, the tainted blunderings of the diminished warlocks of Qarth, all of it was laid out for him to pick and choose what would work for him and his ways and what wouldn’t.

He had no need of a blood-curse that would kill even the strongest of men such as maegi in Essos practiced, nor of poisons when he had sword and dagger and the skill to use them.

But shadow binding was interesting in a horrifying manner and made him gladder than he could say that Tom Riddle had never thought of it.

There were multiple levels and layers to the spellwork that brought Valyria low, the elder dragons had the right of that.  It was a tricky, complicated beast to untangle, especially as the magic of it had grown and warped and mutated in time as it continued unchallenged and unabated for four centuries.  Whoever the mage was who enacted it in a suicidal endeavor, Harry hoped they found peace in death.  For it was clear they had never known a moment of it in life.

Some people just wanted the world to burn.

The whys of it didn’t ever matter in the end, whether it was for revenge or from a sense of justice, to right wrongs or just watch the world bleed.

Just that _they_ were the ones who sparked the flames.

Now it was Harry’s task to put the blaze of this spellwork to rest, lest that mage get more than they bargained for as it continued to grow and feast upon the natural magics of Valyria and the Fourteen Flames.

…

Due to the mutation of the original magics, Harry couldn’t simply start at the beginning of the dead mage’s spell but had to begin at the current end: the mutation, then peel it back layer by layer until the ritual was as faceted and complex – if not more so – than the one that had blacked the skies and split the land.

Setting up the ritual took time even after the four of them found the root of the spell, with Harry being more than a little smug over being right.

It was magic far beyond anything he’d ever considered enacting before, or anything he would ever do afterwards.

Of course, the elder dragons were right as well.

Unwilling blood sacrifice had gone into fashioning the spell, it could only be _undone_ by its opposite, _willing_ blood sacrifice.

That, at least, helped salve Harry’s conscience.

He was a killer, at this point there was no denying it.  Fashioned from his first sixteenth-month of life to become a weapon.  Then reforged in the fires of Westeros’s knightly culture.  Whether with magic or steel, by broom or by dragonback, Harry was a killer.

But he wasn’t a murderer, which made the situation a tense one until they’d found proof enough in the old texts that it wouldn’t be murder Harry would be enacting, but assisted suicide of the two great elder dragons who wanted nothing more to see the tainted magic strangling Valyria and their kind undone before they could rest.

That, at least, Harry could give them in return for their knowledge and lives.

Months of research, weeks of planning and preparation, and in the end it all came down to a single reborn wizard and two elder dragons carrying out a ritual in the womb of the world.

…

Between the seven years of learning magic in his first life and most of his second being taught and trained by Benjen, Harry knew more magic when he arrived in Valyria and met the elder dragons then most wizards ever learn in a lifetime unless they become Unspeakables or Masters of a magical field.

But that was wizarding magic.

Wild magic, the magic of Westeros and Valyria and Essos, was different.

All magic however, came done to a single thing as Benjen had taught him years before: will.

Magic was simple at its heart and the best magics were simple as well, accomplished through power and will.

Runes were carved over those that had helped channel the magics of Valyria into the Doom in each of thirteen of the Fourteen Flames, the only one left untouched being the First Flame as the mage was unable to access it with the constant dragon presence in the caverns.

More runes were carved into the womb of the world in the First Flame, some to shield the eggs that would stay from the magics of the ritual, others to keep the volcano from crashing down on top of them, others to channel magic to cleanse the land, and still others to deal with any excess.  Between the two dragons who wished to give their lives to ensure the survival of their species, Harry was going to be releasing over six hundred _years_ of magic that had been stored in the muscles and sinews, bone and fangs and hearts of the elder dragons.  He was taking no chances that it would prove more than he or the runes for the ritual could process, store, and channel alone.

However, the womb happened to be studded with Valyrian diamonds, which were the best magical conduits for power storage Harry had ever worked with.

That still left him with a single problem.

“What do you want done with your bodies?”  He asked as Balerion busied himself flying to-and-fro in the womb cavern, setting up pillars of Valyrian diamond harvested from the veins in the cavern to catch the possible run-off of the spell. 

Slabs of dragonglass had been carved and set onto a pair of existing natural formations below the ledge which could hold the weight of Terror and Brier.  Massive fucking slabs of dragonglass at that.  If it wasn’t for all the ready-formed and mined dragonglass that had made up the towers and spires of Valyria, getting slabs that were four hundred yards by four hundred yards and two-fifty by two-fifty would have been a pain and a half to manage.

Thankfully he had dragons and magic to do the heavy lifting, or he would’ve had to let the remains fall into the flame sea below when the ritual was done, since he was banking on not being of use for much of anything once the ritual was complete.

“ _You’re not going to like it._ ”  Terror told him plain with a laughing snort.  _“But the bones, fangs, claws and hides are yours to do with as you please.  The meat however…”_

Harry made a face, catching on at once.

Terror hadn’t been known as the “Cannibal” for nothing.

“You want me to feed you to the hatchlings, don’t you?”  He groaned, pressing the heels of his hands over his eyes.  The humans of the weyr were _not_ going to be happy about that if they ever found out.

 _“Not without reason.”_ Brier soothed him after head-butting Terror with a hiss, forcing them away and over to the black’s slab to sulk and grumble.  “ _Terror had nothing but contempt for weaker dragons and saw them as little better than sheep, this is true.  However, you know well by now that every inch of a dragon has magic.  The magic of our muscles and sinews will help the hatchlings grow much faster than otherwise.  And it was that stored magic from centuries of,”_ Brier snorted and rolled her eyes at the snide way Terror had referred to their cannibalistic tendencies.  _“ Freeing lesser dragons from the binding spells upon them that has allowed the big bastard to live longer than any other of our kind.  Teach them not to hunt our own, but to honor every inch of us once we fall in battle or from age.  It will help them all survive in the end.”_

Ick.  Harry held back an up-chuck at that.  But it _was_ their bodies they were discussing.  It was a gross solution.  But it was a solution nonetheless.

Then something clicked.

“Magic helps you grow, helps you live long lives.”  Harry thought out loud.  “That’s why you grew smaller and weaker as magic declined.  It was only partially captivity.  Magic played its part as well.”

 _“Yes.”_ Balerion came over, nuzzling his person a bit as he knew the conversation was distressing for a human – with human sensibilities.  It was just life to a dragon.  Better they strengthen their kind than left to rot or burn.  “ _As the Andals choked out magic in Westeros, magical species declined such as the direwolves.   As it returned with the arrival of the Targaryens, magical species flourished – for a time.”_

Harry set that aside to ponder over another time, already trying to figure out the logistics of butchering an animal the size of Godzilla with wings while the three elder dragons made their farewells, particularly Terror and Brier who had been companions in the First Flame for over a hundred years.

Then Harry took up the first of two spears fashioned of Valyrian steel, said his words to charge the spell, and let it fly with help from a propulsion spell lacking a ballista.

It hit true, Terror giving a great cry, his roar shaking the very mountain in which they stood and would have ruptured Harry, Balerion, and Brier’s eardrums were it not for the muffling spells he’d set up knowing that even a dragon so aged and inured to pain as the Terror would not take a spear to the heart in silence.

Nor would Harry want him to.

Giving a bow, Harry knelt and chanted as the blood trailed down the spear and filled the runes carved upon Terror’s slab, then repeated the process with Brier, ignoring the tears that poured down his face as the great brown gave him one last fang-filled smile and a graceful dip of her head before she roared in turn.

As soon as Balerion had witnessed it done, he gave a roar as well, one echoed by the cries of the thirteen newly hatched dragons who had been arranged in a rune circle of their own between the foreclaws of the Black Dread.

For Harry’s part, he would have joined them in awaying the spirits of the elder dragons, but he had a task of his own to complete.

One that he would not fail, given what it had cost to begin, even as he screamed in pain as his nerves caught fire from the burnout of magical overload and the golden hair from his temples to the bottom curve of his ear turned white with strain.

Six hundred years and more of wisdom and life gone in less than five minutes, a sacrifice he _would not_ let be in vain even if it meant giving his own life in the process.

He would _not_ fail.

Valyria would be cleansed.

Whether he lived to see it or not.


	12. Cost

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

_“There is no glory in battle worth the blood it costs.”_

  * Dwight D. Eisenhower



**Chapter Eleven: Cost**

_Valyria, Third Moon of 296 AC_

It was a close thing from what Balerion told Jaeherys once he awoke three days after the ritual.

No human was made to channel the magic of a dragon, let alone the two oldest of their elders.

His magical channels fried, worse than any exposure to the Cruciatus.

His body buckled and collapsed under the strain.

And then his heart stopped.

Stopped for long enough that the only thing that kept Balerion from thinking him dead in truth was their intact bond.

It was all that saved him in the end, as even the precautions he’d take to channel the runoff hadn’t been enough.

He saw a memory of himself some weeks later in Balerion’s mind as the dragon brooded over how close he’d come to losing his chosen rider.  Blood running from his ears and nose.  Tears coursing unchecked down his pain-wracked face.  The magic of the ritual had nearly torn him apart, lifting him into the air before sending him crashing back down, only missing being tossed into the lava sea by the barriers he’d cast to keep the hatchlings from tumbling off the edge of the ledge.

There was a new… _awareness_ he supposed in his eyes.

Harry had never been one to doubt his own insignificance in his first life but his second had done much to build him back up.  He was a prince after all.  A prince that wielded both sword and magic to devastating effect against his foes as Prendos could attest and had done what no other of his line for a hundred years had managed in bringing back the dragons.  He wasn’t of the caliber of vanity of say Draco Malfoy or Jaime Lannister, but he wasn’t a _humble_ man anymore either.

Magic, it seemed, had found it necessary to teach him that lesson once more.

He’d been reminded – harshly so – of how little he truly mattered in the grand significance of the universe.

More, he’d been glad to learn it again.  To regain that part of himself that had been worn down in the game of thrones.  To know what it was to be just Harry again.

And he’d wear the reminder of that lesson for all his life in his white streaked hair unless he lived to a great old age and either lost said hair or all the gold turned to silver-white like his Uncle-Maester Aemon’s.

His eyes had changed as well in a physical manner, though it was much harder to spot than his hair or the changed expression.  They’d taken on a lighter green around the black pupil.  A lighter green that matched the spell that killed him once and that had become the color of Balerion’s reborn form’s eyes.

Harry did not look forward to the questions – and the scold – that were sure to come from his mother over the changes.

With his nerves fried and his magic overloaded, he found himself “enjoying” a weakness in body and a massive surge in magical strength – though he felt it was most likely temporary – that left him ill-suited for doing much of anything other than babysitting the hatchlings.  The surging power wasn’t suited for any precise function of magic as he found out when he tried to transfigure a piece of dragonglass into an actual raised bed that would be easier for his weakened body to manage over sleeping on his pallet on the floor.  He was pretty sure that portion of the cavern would never be the same, though he _was_ at least able to use _aquamenti_ to put the fire out.

He hated feeling useless and sorry for himself.

Balerion hated it too, since a sulky Harry was never the best companion either through the bond or in person.

As a result, the black dragon set him to a simple project that needed doing and only needed him to draw a runic circle that would charge from ambient magic sloughing off his body and then cast a summoning charm.

Simple enough, with the runic circle working as a barrier to keep items that matched multiple descriptions that he used to summon them from jumping from rune circle to rune circle.  With the help of Balerion and the more solicitous hatchlings he was able to get around well enough as he recovered, though he’d kill for just one of Potion Master Snape’s restorative potions.  If there was one thing he missed more than any other from his first life other than the obvious friends/family/treacle tart, it was their medical care.

It wasn’t near so bad as Europe had been during the middle ages but it was nothing to write home about either and had taken the most getting used to behind the lack of indoor plumbing.

Thank Merlin for banishing and scouring charms was the consensus between Benjen and Harry on that aspect of living in Westeros.

There was a definite learning curve involved in his “keep busy” project but as he needed weeks or more to recover before he could even _think_ about setting wards around the restored Valyria to keep out adventures and squatters from his land – and yes, it was _his_ , he’d put in the damn work it was his – while he saw to other issues.  Uninhabited in the wake of the cleansing from what he could tell of using his increased magical stores to probe at the land, he intended to originally claim everything from the Smoking Sea to the southern-most tip of Valyria and would need to ward it to stake said claim.  The rest of it could wait for later, after he’d started east and swept west.

Having a haven in Essos – and very near as central as you could get bordering any of the seas – would be a boon to his campaign.

It would take years for the cleansing to truly take effect in the further-flung areas that had bordered the original Freehold.  The Isle of Cedars would probably be one of the first and Mantarys the last.  But it would happen nonetheless.  And magic in the world would be healthier for it.

He wouldn’t have been surprised if the aftershocks of the cleansing reached the Shadow-Binders of Asshai to the East and as far as the wargs and greenseers of the lands Beyond the Wall in Westeros.

No great working of magic ever went unnoticed.

The Doom certainly hadn’t.

Most magic followed simple rules when it came to more complex spellwork such as shrinking spells or expansion charms.  In the case of those spells rules the one that mattered for the moment was the rule of three.  Harry wasn’t the best with stacking expansion and featherweight charms.  Something about it defied a sense of logic that he couldn’t get around.

Shrinking spells were different.

Making something smaller and then making lighter made more sense to him than making something the size of an airplane fit in a bag the size of a coin purse _and_ weigh nothing.

The rule of three was simple.

You could only easily stack three shrinking spells together without complex spellwork and runes to anchor it.

For Harry how that worked out was simple: items shrunk then placed into a container which was shrunk in turn, and then that contain into another and so on with a featherweight charm placed on the last item.

To keep straight what was where and in what, Harry used a simple system of organization with metals in one kind of container, gemstones another, coins in another, and so on with marks and runes on the containers to keep it all sorted.

Busy work but needed work if he was going to come through on the extortionate fees Saan had demanded for his services and pay the ship builders for his new fleet and so on and so forth.

The tales had been right about one thing when it came to Valyria.

If a man could survive the journey and make it home the riches and treasures of Valyria were waiting for the claiming.

When at last he had a modicum of control over his magic he set to work exercising his body and making his magic do what it could to heal the self-inflicted spell-damage.  He did it through another round of busy work, this time clearing what remained of the destroyed buildings in his “claimed” portion of Valyria and restoring or rebuilding where it wouldn’t be a waste of his strength to manage it.  He couldn’t return to his people in the Stepstones or to his connections in Westeros until he was restored – if only mostly – in body.

Weakness was not something the world he lived in tolerated in a leader.

Harry had been many things in this life and the last but never had he been weak.

And of course, all of this was done, even the warding when the time came, with thirteen rapidly-growing dragon hatchlings nipping at his heels or flying around his head when they weren’t bedeviling Balerion or sleeping and learning in the in-between of the dreaming.

The makeshift – and temporary – bond they’d formed to him and Balerion wasn’t onerous, more like being in the Great Hall of Hogwarts at a meal time.  A bit noisy at time and with zero privacy, but manageable.  And damn if Terror hadn’t been right.

With the magic in the dragon’s bodies, they grew at a rate unheard of on a diet of ancient elder-dragon meat.

A fact he’d keep to himself thank you very fucking much.

The last thing the dragons needed was some bastard thinking that _eating_ them would turn him into a giant or warrior of legend.

Especially one of those Ironborn idiots like aging Lord Greyjoy’s mean-ass sons.

If nothing else, Harry was happy that _those_ arseholes were now Rhaegar’s problem to deal with, otherwise when Quellon died – or was helped to die – and his squid-fucking heir Balon took the Seastone Chair it would have been _Harry’s_ duty to put down the resulting – and inevitable – rebellion as his brother’s main general and the commander of the weyr.

…

“They want me to what?”  Harry blinked up at Balerion from his sickbed about a week into his recovery, still too weak to do much more than eat, sleep, and piss blood.

The hatchlings spent most of their time either learning to walk and fly – a very adorable stage Harry remembered well from when Balerion, Vaiva, and Inanna were all growing up – or huddled around Harry and Balerion sleeping or tumbling over one of them or the other or each other.

Cute.

Too damn cute for a weyr that he was sure when they grew the world would tremble to behold.

Especially from what Balerion told him only five of the thirteen had chosen riders of an age to bond and spend a year or more learning what it was to be a dragon rider from Viserys at Summerhall, and of those five only two were willing to impart that their riders were at least Westerosi.

Secretive creatures.

Secretive creatures that he might have around for a long time until they leave to bond their riders.

Good thing he’d already ordered all of the Stepstones but the three with usable harbors to be used to run herds of sheep, beef, and deer to feed the Valyrian weyr which at the time had only been three-strong not the sixteen it numbered now.

Rhaegar had done the same for the fields of Summerhall valley that weren’t needed to sustain the smallfolk and palace.

“ _They want you to name them.”_   Balerion repeated, amused both at his person’s confusion and at the request voice by the unofficial “leader” of the weyr, Vermithor’s reborn body.

 _“I thought dragons liked to choose their names with their riders._ ”  Harry frowned, trying in vain to think of any information Balerion – or any of the other dragons including the now-deceased elders – had given him to the contrary.

 _“They do, usually.”_ Balerion gave a draconic shrug that had Harry eyeing his wings.  It seemed the hatchlings weren’t the only ones growing thanks to the concentrated magic in the remains of the elders.  _“But they think and I agree, that you deserve the honor as you nearly died to give them true life instead of the half-life of the egg.”_

Harry’s mind was blown at that, then several minutes he spoke.

Agreeing.

What else was there to do in the face of thirteen sets of eyes watching him in varying degrees of hopeful cuteness and chirping at him.

It wasn’t fair in the least.

At least with how fast they were growing they wouldn’t be able to undo him with only a look for long.

“Who’s first?”

Vermithor-who-was, was naturally the first to fly into his lap, nestling in for pettings and scratches as Harry contemplated names, a ritual in itself that repeated another dozen times.

They were:

Vaethor, Vermithor’s reborn form in solid bronze with copper scales and eyes.

Deimos, in honor of Terror’s sacrifice, who was blood red with white and flame-blue scales with light blue eyes.

Briarrose, in honor of Brier’s sacrifice, who was bright silver with lavender and cornflower scales with amethyst eyes.

Tyria, for one of the old gods and settlements of Valyria, who was mixed shades of black with dark purple and dark midnight blue scales and sapphire eyes.

Aerva, who was light grey with white scales and grey eyes, one of the sweetest hatchlings.

Savon, who was yellow with bronze and russet scales and brown eyes, one of the two hatchlings who knew – and admitted – that their rider was both old enough to bond and in Westeros.

Tyrsas, who was grass-green with yellow scales and eyes, the second hatchling who had an adult Westerosi rider.

Maeka, who was light jade green with dark green scales and light green eyes and very playful.

Blazewing, for reasons obvious when one saw their orange coloring with yellow and red wing scales, with yellow eyes.

Flametwister, who was named for behavior rather than his lapis blue beauty with peacock and indigo scales and indigo eyes, the hatchling having a habit of trying to fly corkscrews and barrel rolls through his burgeoning blue flames.

Dreamsong, who sang haunting cries in the night that brought tears to Harry’s eyes more often than not, who had sea green coloring with turquoise and emerald scales with turquoise eyes that made him miss baby Teddy with a deep ache for the first time in years.

Nightfury, who was the fiercest of the hatchlings though not bad-tempered, with black and dark blue scales with pitch-black eyes that seemed endless in the light.

And the last, Umbra, who was a rich dark brown with copper scales and brown eyes.

…

The mid-year moon was approaching before Harry was recovered enough to ward Valyria and make the journey west, the time of the tourney which was to be hosted in Winterfell in honor of Lyanna’s oldest nephew gaining his knighthood closer than he’d like.

Harry had given his word that he would attend, and nothing would make him break his word to his family.

He’d finally managed to strip the hides from the remains of the elder dragons, tanning and preserving them along with their hearts with a vague idea regarding wands or staffs floating around.

Well.

That would have to wait for Benjen to see if the other wizard knew any wand-crafting.

If not, then it would make excellent cording for magical talismans or amulets.

The meat had done its work, feeding fourteen dragons for months before it ran out and Balerion taught the now-fledged dragons to hunt and fish to feed themselves.

And the bones and fangs and claws left behind were joined by the skeletons of the hundreds of dragons who had died in the Doom, though like much of the wealth and treasures recovered during his own recovery Harry wasn’t sure of what to do with them, only that they shouldn’t be left to molder until he managed to draw settlers to the restored islands.

The volcanoes at least had settled with the magic stirring them washed away and returned to a dormancy they likely hadn’t known for thousands of years with the constant usage of pyromancy the Valyrians had practiced.

A few empty towers and spires were all the remained of a once-great empire when Harry was done and the time came to leave until his campaign brought him back.

If nothing else, Valyria had changed him forevermore and reminded him of the cost of power – both its possession and abuses – took on a people.

…

_The Laughing Lady, Lys_

Benjen Stark was nudged awake by a sensation of warmth and love surrounding him that certainly wasn’t coming from his companion who was unaffected.

A sensation he well knew.

Opening his eyes he stared at the glowing blue-white stag Patronus he’d known for longer than anyone would believe in his second life.

_“I’ll meet you in Braavos at the Iron Bank.  Two days.”_

Well.

It was a good thing Inanna was never far away or he’d never make it in time, though at least he’d be able to take his leave from his companion before setting out for Braavos, stopping at Bloodstone to pick up Tyrion and Vaiva along with way.

The non-riders of their company who were needed at the tourney – or just wanted to go – had already departed for White Harbor on _The Black Dread_.

Benjen and Tyrion had been waiting for their fearless leader to return from his long absence in Valyria.

He missed that pretty bastard’s face.

Patroni messages just weren’t the same.

…

_The King’s Road_

“Is he coming, Lord Varys?”

“Oh, yes your Grace.”  The Master of Whispers bowed to Rhaegar.  “My little birds tell me that a dragon took wing from the east.  Jaeherys is returning to Westeros, though not without making a few stops along the way one would think…”

…

_The Free City of Braavos, Ninth day of the Sixth Moon of 296 AC_

“Merlin Harry.”  Benjen’s quicksilver eyes shot wide as he got a good look at his closest friend.  A rough swordsman’s hand grasped at a cheek that never seemed to grow more than soft down – a trait of many two-natured – turning that pretty face side to side to better show the silver-white chunks that had taken over a four-inch-long and inch wide swathe of formerly-golden hair.  “How long?”

Benjen had known Harry had done a great work of magic.

How could he not?

The waves and aftershocks of it had ripped through the Known World, with ravens flying from the Citadel to King’s Landing in a panic, Varys harvesting songs from as far away as Asshai and as near as the royal chambers all saying the same thing: great magic had been done but no one seemed to know by whom or why.

Benjen – and the appearance of Viserys in Bloodstone – had spoken volumes over who those nearest and dearest to Jaeherys had thought had been behind it.

A tense trio of days had passed before Benjen received an overdue Patronus from Harry ascertaining his safety for his friends and family.

A Patronus that had made light of what – from the signs of spell damage visible to one all-too-familiar with them – had been vastly more dangerous than Harry had made it sound before or since.

“I’m still recovering.”  Harry told him without ado.  “Anything needing fiddly magic is going to be under your purview for a while but if anything needs destroyed I’m your wizard.”

“Merlin, pup.”  Benjen breathed then pulled him into a crushing hug, Tyrion and the dragons watching this with worried eyes as they realized from both what was said and what wasn’t how close they all came to losing Jaeherys Targaryen.  “ _Merlin_.”

“Hey, Pads, I’m alive yeah?”  Jaeherys lifted one hand to Benjen’s wild mane of black hair, stroking the shorter-but-broader man and soothing him as he shook.  “I’m alive.  It wasn’t easy, what I did, but it was _right_.  I survived.  Now.”  He flicked his eyes around the manse that Tyrion had let for them when the two other riders arrived the day before.  “Let’s see about our business here before heading to Pentos and getting _that_ joyful duty over with.  There’ll be plenty of time to talk when we make Winterfell.”

“There better.”  Was all Tyrion said on the matter – though it was no less threatening for it.

…

Their business in Braavos was three-fold.

First, Harry wanted to deposit a portion of the money he’d found in Valyria in the famed Iron Bank.

And second…well.

A _birdy_ had told him that several of the young ladies of his acquaintance had gained an interest in leaning weaponry – particularly the sword.

Broadswords and longswords alike can be difficult to wield without the right bulk and musculature.

The bravo swords preferred by the Water Dancers however…that was a different story entirely.

Last was a visit to the House of Black and White.

…

Whether due to the station of his birth or his status as the commander of the dragon weyr, the Iron Bank didn’t keep them waiting when the trio arrived.

Led into a long room tiled with gorgeous green marble with stark grey walls and windows with designs in iron, the three riders were met by representatives of the Bank, keyholders to a one, who sat behind a slab table hewn straight from the same grey stone as the walls, with stationary cushioned chairs behind for the keyholders and solid stone benches for supplicants.

Tyrion played herald, as per usual when another wasn’t available, a lack that Harry would have to figure out at some point along with a million other things.

“Come now is Jaeherys Dragonborn, golden Prince of House Targaryen, Sovereign Lord of the Stepstones.”

The keyholders all nodded, gesturing for the three lords to be seated.

“Prince Jaeherys.”  The center keyholder took the lead as the others watched, marking each and every shift of expression or flicker of emotion on the faces of those who came to treat with the Iron Bank.  “It is an honor to have a dragonlord visit Braavos, and more the Iron Bank.”

“Beg pardon, keyholder.”  Harry interrupted, albeit in as respectful manner as possible, and using the correct address for an envoy of the Iron Bank who hadn’t been introduced.  “But I am not a dragonlord, nor are my companions.  We are the chosen and bonded riders of the dragons Balerion,” he rested a hand against his chest then gestured to Tyrion on his right and Benjen on his left.  “Vaiva and Inanna.  A dragon is not a slave or a subject to have a master or a lord.”

Now _that_ was interesting, the three envoys traded a glance.

“Beg pardon, Prince Jaeherys.”  The keyholder began again.  “We meant no offense.”

“None taken.”  Harry assured him with a charming smile.  “Given the history of my House, it is an understandable mistake to make.  But I am not my ancestors and their mistakes are not mine to repeat.”

Let them make of _that_ what they will.

“Of course.”  The keyholder agreed at once, rapidly changing topics as he began to understand that this “Golden Prince of House Targaryen” was no dragonlord of Old Valyria but a different beast altogether.  “What can the Iron Bank do for you, your grace?”

“We are come to make a deposit.”  Harry told them, taking out a simple cloth bag from within his cloak as Benjen did the same.  “If your discretion is assured from this moment on.”

“Of course, your grace.”

Grinning at each other, Harry with the coins he’d found in Valyria, and Benjen with those collected as tariffs from ships passing through the Stepstones, summoned the first of the coin purses and upended them, canceling the shrinking charms as they went, pouring out gold and silver and copper onto the green marble floors of the Iron Bank as the keyholders gaped in shock and Tyrion hid his snicker in his sleeve.

…

“By all the gods, Jaeherys.”  Tyrion complained after a full accounting of the coin brought to the Bank had been taken and a writ regarding the deposit had been made.  “How _much_ treasure did you find in Valyria?”

“A bit.”  Harry told him, shrugging his shoulders.  “That was about a quarter of the coinage I found.”

“Gods, I’m almost jealous.  My father will be pea-green with envy over losing his title of richest man in the Sunset and Narrow Seas.”

“Don’t be.”  Harry told him as they made their way to the Moon Pool to find one Syrio Forel, former First Sword of Braavos and Master of the Water Dane.  “The cost of that gold could be measured in nothing but blood.”

…

After retaining the services of the water dancer to train any of the young ladies – or lords for that matter – who might wish to learn in King’s Landing, Forel taking passage to the city via a trading ship which had been secured by Tyrion for whoever Harry ended up contracting for the position.

Then Harry had taken his leave from his friends, telling them to enjoy the city as they left in the morning for Pentos, but avoid any duels with brash bravos.

Where he was going – and his business there – needed no other eyes but his own to witness.

 


	13. Friends

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Twelve – Friends**

_The House of Black and White, the Free City of Braavos_

“A man greets the Dragonborn.”  A Faceless Man in the guise of a Lorathi man came to where Harry had come to a stop inside the temple of the Many-Faced-God before the statue of the Pale Child, one of the many aspects of Death that the Faceless Men had come to believe were all representations of the same god.

“The Dragonborn greets a man.”  Harry gave a nod, then swept his gaze over the temple, causing the Faceless Man to lead him away into an alcove.

“What business does the Dragonborn have with the House of Black and White?”

“That of my oldest and dearest friend.”  Harry told him with raw honesty.  “That of Death.”

The Faceless Man found himself surprised – and a bit impressed – at the answer.  Many were those who came to pray to the Many-Faced-God or seek the Faceless Men.  Never before had any but the oldest supplicants called Death their friend.

“I have no illusions.”  Harry continued reaching into his cloak and removing another coin purse similar to the one he’d played his trick on the Iron Bank with.  Though this one had a simple expansion charm on it instead of shrinking charms on the contents.  “Not about life nor death nor the world.  In the days to come someone will send a message to the Faceless Men with my name or that of those I hold most dear.”

“Many names are given to the Faceless Men.”

“Yes, many are.”  Harry agreed then passed the purse over to the priest – and assassin – enjoying the arch look he was given when it turned out to be _much_ heavier than a simple coin-purse of its size had a right to be.  “Not all are accepted by the Men for the Gift, however, so I have brought a list of names of my own.  It lays at the bottom of that bag.  It is up to the Many-Faced-God if it should be read, but if so, then those are the names that will not be accepted by the House of Black and White, no matter the inducement to do so.”

“The Dragonborn is wise.”  The Faceless Man told him, turning the purse in his hand as if trying to get an idea of how much coin it contained without opening it.

“The Dragonborn is cynical.”  Harry drawled shaking his head.  “I have no illusions about the wolves that dwell within men’s hearts.  If I’m going to greet my old friend once more I’d rather it be at the end of an honest blade instead of an assassin’s tools and that my loved ones not greet him at all until they’ve lived long full lives.”

…

Braavos to Pentos was a short flight, even having to ameliorate the speed with which Benjen and Harry could normally handle from Inanna and Balerion to keep from damaging Tyrion atop Vaiva.  Seven hundred and twenty miles was a pleasant and easy day’s flight lasting around ten hours without spellwork to protect Tyrion from wind-shear, and less than that with the spells.  Since he was traveling with a pair of wizards, they made it in less if not as fast as Harry or Benjen could have made it alone, especially as of the three Balerion had greatly outdistanced the other dragons in size, making his friends joke – though they had no _idea_ of how right they were – regarding the feeding of said massive black dragon.

Balerion hadn’t retained his size before his death, but he had completed regaining his size from when Aegon mounted him for conquest in a twentieth of the time it took him during his first life.

Part of that was the bond with an active magical core through Harry, the magic nourishing him in a more direct way than hunting alone could save for hunting other magical creatures, while the other was from the sacrifice made by the Elder Dragons.

The thirteen had remained within the safety of Valyria and under the gimlet eye of Vaethor, with Harry planning to send for them when he arrived in Winterfell and ascertained his brothers’ whereabouts.

Tyrion and Benjen had reacted to his tale of his time in Valyria about as well as Harry had expected – meaning not at all and with much cursing, shouting, and more than a few tears when they realized how close they came to losing him.  They were ecstatic that the weyr was growing, that he’d found treasures to fund their (his) plans in Essos, that he’d survived and met the great elder dragons (though the last was tinged with a dab of envy from both friends) but they were wise enough to count the _cost_ and now knew what Harry meant by the blood tainting the coin he’d turned over to the Iron Bank.

Pentos was a different beast than Braavos in almost every way.

Given that, Harry really didn’t blame Benjen from out-right refusing to play dragon-envoy to the city that worshipped nothing so much as the sound of coins on coin and was neck-deep in the slave trade despite the prohibition placed upon them after losing several wars against Braavos over the subject.

At least Tyrosh, Myr, and Lys were _open_ with what they were, was Benjen’s feeling.

Tyrion didn’t quite understand the vehemence with which Benjen and Jaeherys carried their opinions on slavery given that oftentimes the smallfolk of Westeros and cities and lands without slavery were in just as dire straights as any slave but without the title and visible chains and collars and brands.

Still, there were worse traits his friends could have.

They could be celibates or teetotalers for instance.

Tyrion could tolerate _views_ on slavery but declining the pleasures of the flesh _and_ wine was a step too far.

One of the reasons Harry had Benjen play envoy – besides having active magic in case of emergency or attack – was he had a genuine fear that if he let Tyrion ever visit the Summer Isles the Lannister would never leave unless Vaiva insisted.

Pentos was ruled by a council of magisters and a ceremonial “Prince” who was selected by said council.  Wealth ruled Pentos in fact as the magisters did in deed.  They were the most genial of the Free Cities by far, open-handed with the Dothraki _khals_ who with their _khalasars_ came for tribute across the Great Grass Sea to the Free Cities or Slavers Bay alike.  A good policy, especially for Pentos which was the least defensible of the Free Cities for all that it was closest to King’s Landing across the Narrow Sea making it located for the best trade with Westeros.

Varys had bid Harry in a coded message delivered to Tyrion to await the return of the Prince to visit with an “old friend” named Illyrio Mopatis when Harry ventured to Pentos, who was evidently a magister of the council and one of the richest and most powerful men in Essos.  According to Varys they would be “made most welcome” by the good magister and the manse was of a size and guarded by a century of Unsullied from Astapor who would vouchsafe the dragons if need-be they were left at the manse of Mopatis while Harry and the other riders visited the bazaars and markets of the great trade city.  And Varys was rarely wrong, Tyrion having sent a raven before Benjen arrived to collect him and Vaiva for the trip to Braavos from Bloodstone.

Mopatis greeted them with effervescent hearty cheer and eyes wide with awed terror as the three dragons landed in a clear area inside of his manse.

They were shown to room, given baths and food, wine and clothes, then left to sleep and refresh themselves from their several days on dragon back between the trip to Braavos and then onto Pentos.

It was all very lovely and generous.

Harry didn’t trust rotund Magister Mopatis as far as Tyrion could throw him without magic or Vaiva.

A wise precaution as it turned out that Mopatis _did_ , as did all men like him, want something in turn for his generosity and words of placation to his fellow magisters whom most of which had landed on the “kill them” spectrum of reaction to the dragons returning to the world.

…

It seemed in some ways that all the greatest moments of the world no one ever heard of took place in closed rooms, with just two beings having a simple conversation.

Wars declared, treaties negotiated, marriages arranged, or simpler things that in many ways had as large an impact on the face of the future of the world as the great arrangements of the powerful.  A handshake, an insult, a kiss, a death.  Simple as could be.  But not when measured by _impact_.  Harry imagined that it was in a similar room with a simple table in between that Illyrio Mopatis arranged to marry the last descendant of Aerion Brightflame, and yet another where he and Varys decided the spymaster would go west to take his bird-song to the ears of Harry’s brother, and yet another where Mopatis engaged the services of the Golden Company.

In this case, it was a meeting to give a gift and ask a favor.

Both simple things, or so one would think…if one weren’t a sovereign lord and prince and a veritable king of commerce.

The gift, however, was most commensurate with the favor being asked, so Harry did not feel hard-pressed in that way.  It wasn’t truly, after all, designed to buy Harry’s compliance with Illyrio’s request but to _overlook_ everything else was implied about former plans now discarded and gift Illyrio and all those involved with their lives.  A blood-price to keep him from ripping them out root and stem for _daring_ to plot against his family.

If it wasn’t for evidence he could discern from things such as dates that spoke to the plans having been set in motion during the reign of his father Aerys, there would be no inducement in the known world that would have saved Illyrio and his conspirators from his wrath.

As it was…it was a _very_ good bribe.

And while plans and plots had been made, no _actual_ laws as Harry could see had been broken – yet – in the process of it.  That’s all they were now.  Plans and plots discarded, worth less than a passing fancy.  Even Harry’s formidable temper couldn’t see its way clear to cutting down a man over what he had once _wished_ to do, so long as he never entertained such wishes again.

A troubling thing to ensure – for another.

Fiddly magic might be beyond him at the moment but an Unbreakable Vow wasn’t fiddly but some of the rawest magic there was.

“I can’t speak for my brother.”  Jaeherys finally said after long moments of silence between the two men.  And it had been a long time, near to a half-hour from what he could see of the shifted shadows.  “I can speak for Westeros and the people and say without malice that the name Blackfyre will never be made welcome there again.”

“He’s not suited for the life of a magister.”  Illyrio assured him.  “He is a Targaryen at heart as many of the dragonseed often were, that he comes from lines both baseborn and high is of no matter.  If you allow him, he will follow you, Prince Jaeherys.  I want a life for my son where he can be a Blackfyre, a scion of Old Valyria and not the son of a gutter-born cheesemonger from Pentos.”

That, at least, Harry could understand.

More importantly, it would be an easy sell to his friends and captains and eventually his family when Varys’s birds sang of the compromise.

“How old is he now?”

“Twenty-one namedays this year, your grace.”  Illyrio answered.  “His time is divided between lessons here in matters of trade and running a great house and being a warrior and lieutenant for the Golden Company.”

“When was he knighted?”

“Three years ago by Ser Jorah Mormont.”

“Mormont?”  Jaeherys’s brows arched high.  “The exile?”

“He served with the Golden Company for five years, your grace.”  Illyrio informed him.  “During that time he taught Aegon of Westeros and the great houses, the ser may be banned from Westeros and now estranged from his silly grasping wife, but he’s a pragmatist and has a good head for strategy.  I believe he made friends with some of the Dothraki when they would come for tribute, though where he is now I could not say.”

“Hmm.”  Harry hummed under his breath, eyes dragging once more over the bribe: a chest containing three dragon eggs – that Illyrio thought were stone but valuable nonetheless – each with a spark that contradicted Illyrio’s suppositions…not that Harry would enlighten him; the missing crown and pendant of Daena the Defiant; and the Valyrian steel swords Blackfyre and Dark Sister.  Harry had a damn good idea of how Illyrio came by the former at least, but Dark Sister…that was a puzzle.  “A bargain well-struck.”  Harry told him, reaching out and clasping arms with the rotund man.  “I will speak to my brother and keep my men from taking offense at Aegon’s existence.  He will join my company of knights from Westeros.”

“Ah yes the Dragon Company or Harry’s Thousand.”  Mopatis smiled genially now that the bargain had been made.  “I imagine after taking the Stepstones that its in need of topping up to retain its name.”

“Is he here or elsewhere?”

“With the Golden Company in Myr I’m afraid.”  Illyrio shrugged.  “I did not wish to take the chance.  You understand, I am sure.”

“Quite.”  Harry smirked a bit.  “A dragon’s temper can be a terrible thing to behold.”

“What of the Golden Company?  Their plans have been ruptured in the wake of my own.”

“If they would contract with me,” Harry said slowly, already seeing a path opening before him.  “Then it will be the last they ever need.  Either way, have Aegon deliver their decision when he meets me and my men at Bloodstone after the Tourney at Winterfell.  If they will follow me, tell them that I shall be busy in the east for sometime and wish them to stay in the west until I have need of them.  They may take whatever contracts they like, so long as when I call they come.”

“A most fair solution, your grace.”  Illyrio agreed.

“It’s a solution at least.”  Harry held in a sigh.  “Now I have one more thing to discuss with you before I take my leave to the markets – presents to buy for my many nieces and nephews you understand, let alone the ladies of the family.”

“Yes, your grace?”

“A matter of a simple Vow…”

…

“Why do all these things happen to you when you’re away from our sides?”  Tyrion asked with no-little exasperation after taking a single look at his friend’s face when Harry had met them at the fabric market where the three of them were on the hunt for gifts for sisters and nieces alike, and their shared mother Rhaella being the last of the three to reach this age.

“Harry’s a magnet for trouble, always has been.”  Benjen snorted softly as said magnet gave a huff and left them to their contemplative head-scratching over wool versus silk versus lace.

They were _gifts_.

So long as they didn’t get anything foul to the ladies’ sensibilities – and Harry knew both men had an eye for what looked good on a woman to stay away from puce – the ladies would be pleased with the thought even if they never touched the fabric for anything other than a hand-maid’s dress for holy days.

“Oh good gods, where did that prat go?”  Tyrion turned in a circle vexed at _both_ prats both Harry who had disappeared into the crowd and Benjen who was even now on the hunt of a dusky beauty with dark eyes.  Tyrion looked up at the servant Mopatis had obligingly supplied to carry purchases.  “Why are all my friends such idiots?”

…

It was a hiss that had drawn Harry away, though not of the kind he understood, but a different kind entirely, a smaller market than the fabric warehouses and stalls being set up in an adjacent courtyard.

This market, it seemed, traded in animals for menageries and pets alike, the hissing he’d heard belonging to a little spit-fire of a sleek black kitten with cat-green eyes.

“Ah, a very good choice your grace!”  The trader cried upon seeing the infamous golden three-headed dragon that was the sigil of Jaeherys Targaryen embroidered over the left-breast of his simple black tunic and leather leggings, a golden three-headed dragon pendant with purple Valyrian-diamond eyes around his neck and this lordship’s seal-ring upon his right hand and his dragon-ring upon his left.  He could be no one else, as no man was fool enough to attempt to impersonate so fierce a creature as the Dragonborn.  “Bred to be a fierce and protective companion for a young lord or lady!”

“How old is she?”

“Two moons, your grace, just of an age to be removed from her littermates and mother.”

Harry gestured that he’d like to inspect the kitten, the trader rushing to open the cage and for all his haste removed the little kitten with gentle hands.  She was handed over to the canny-eyed Prince, who felt her joints and legs with soft touches, testing her by a light tug on an ear and tail.  It wouldn’t do for his cousin to be disfigured by a gift from him after all.  Her mother would have his head.

“She might do.”  Harry hemmed a bit, wandering over to another cage that belonged to the same traders.  “And who might this be?”  He tilted his head in interest.  “Not a housecat I don’t think.”

And indeed it wasn’t, more akin to a Savannah cat or Bengal that he remembered Mrs. Figg rhapsodizing on about during his first life.

“A golden huntress from the Kingdom of Sarnor, your grace.”  The trader assured him, likely seeing gold dance before his gaze.

“Safe for a child?”

“As much as any feline, your grace.”  The trader answered with a huffing laugh.  “An orphan found by a caravan, more domesticated for it but still with a bit of the wild in her.”

In the end, the trader’s greed was satisfied as Harry parted with a gold dragon for the kittens, the trader having them sent to Illyrio’s manse for the Prince as he moved further into the market, another sound catching his attention: one of yelping.

And for good reason, as no sooner had the trader he’d completed his business with grimaced and Harry rounded the stall then he saw what had displeased the trader so close on the heels of a bargain well-struck.

Another trader, this one with the rough look of the Tyroshi slavers who raided along the Westerosi coast complete with blue-dyed hair and an oiled mustachio, was kicking at cages far too small crammed with far too many canine bodies and cursing them in the bastard-Valyrian that was used by the lower castes of Tyrosh.

“You there!”  Jaeherys called out, striding through the market and the people parting before him as his eyes flashed with power and the air seemed to crackle around him, one strong hand already settled on the pommel of his dagger.  A sword was more of a liability in a crowd than a use.  “Halt!”

“Ha!”  The trader sneered at him even as the Pentosi guards came forward at Jaeherys’s command.  “Who is this Andal dog,” the trader took in the Westerosi clothes and – foolishly – looked no further in his temper.  “To command Ollo in how he treats his property?”

“I am Jaeherys Targaryen.”  Harry answered him simply, the guards stepping back and forcing a perimeter at that.

They had their orders regarding the Dragonborn.

That man was do to as he pleased while in Pentos at the order of both the council and the magister prince of Pentos.

“And how.”  Harry drawled, circling “Ollo” in an uncanny echo of the creatures he’d been abusing.  When he’d gotten closer he’d caught sight of one of the creatures trapped in the cages.  Creatures he’d only seen once before in his life, but as with dragons, once was all you needed for their image to be engraved upon their memory.  “Did low-born Tyroshi scum come to have possession of,” Harry made a quick estimate.  “More than a dozen direwolf pups and a pair of grown direwolf bitches of breeding age, hm?”  He tsked mockingly.  “Methinks someone has been poaching.”

Ollo straightened up, though found himself still short of the Prince’s height, giving a sneer at the pretty dragon-fucking bastard.

“Prove it.”

Harry’s eyes flashed, as little did this Ollo know, but that was what he’d hoping he’d say or at least something like it.

“No need.”  Harry told him simply.  “Direwolves aren’t native to Essos.  They roam only through the North of Westeros and the Lands Beyond the Wall.  Unless there’s a booming business I’ve never heard of in White Harbor exporting direwolves, their very presence is all the _proof_ I need of your crime.  Did you know that theft under the law, and that is exactly was poaching is, theft from a king or a lord’s lands, could be punished by as much as your life?”

At that, the guards moved in and grabbed hold of the trader as the crowd watched with shades of wariness mixed with satisfied entertainment.  Not one of them spoke up in Ollo’s defense.  It seemed the foul-natured trader hadn’t made himself welcome in the market.

Stupid of him, nearly as much as trying to pick a fight with a Targaryen Prince in a city with long ties to that House due to trading with King’s Landing and the Red Keep.

“What would you have done with him, your grace?”  The leader of the guards asked with a short bow as the trader was towed away by his men.

“Inform the magister in charge of this sector of my words.”  Harry decided.  “He’s not a citizen of either mine nor my brother the king’s lands.  However, I _will_ take these,” he waved to the cages with a bit of a chuckle.  _“Natural_ citizens of my brother and return them from whence they came.”

Direwolves weren’t dogs that was true, anymore than dragons were flying lizards or scaled birds.

Doing a quick inspection, Harry spent good coin on some larger traveling cages and bedding for the direwolves as well as a good meal – it seemed they hadn’t been well-fed since their capture – from the surrounding and chattering traders before taking one up on the offer of hiring her cart to transport the cages to Illyrio’s manse.

As he did so, he wondered who would be more excited of his nieces and nephews and their Stark cousins…as well as whether Lady Catelyn, Lady Ashara, or his good-sister Lyanna would have his head for giving their children – and husband in the case of Ashara and Ned – direwolves of their very own.

He wasn’t foolish enough to think that if the pups had been born in captivity, as he figured was likely given their size, could be returned to the wild.

All he wanted given the long day he’d had already was to return to the manse and rest curled up next to Balerion, a wish that wasn’t to be as he wasn’t the only one of his party that had found trouble…or had trouble find him.

…

Getting over a dozen direwolves – including a pair of bitches that were sickly from captivity and poor care after whelping – settled was no small undertaking.  Each of the pups had to be groomed and seen to, which Illyrio’s servants helped out with, while only the bravest of them were willing to go near the injured bitches.  Not that Harry could blame them.  It had been a few years since he’d seen Brandon’s direwolf Fang that Harry had found along the Kingsroad, and the mature direwolves were much larger than any normal wolf.

Harry with help from a half-grumbling Tyrion, took care of the two females themselves, wrapping injuries, feeding them by hand, and with a bit of distraction on Tyrion’s part for the servants, a few general cleaning and healing spells that would hopefully see them well again.

It was a reasonable hope, given that from what he’d learned of Northerners over the years since Benjen had come back into his life, they tended to be of stout hardy stock – had to be, to survive the terrain and the winter ices and snows.

Benjen was looking rather harried when he at last returned from the markets of Pentos, coming to a dead stop at the sight of two pens – one for each direwolf bitch with her litter…at least as best as they could tell based on their reactions to different pups – and letting out a heavy sigh, deciding to deal with the problem before him before the one after him.

“Harry?”  Benjen stood at the edge of the makeshift pens where the direwolves were being looked after by his friends with the dragons watching them with no-little amusement from the far side of the courtyard – likely to accustom the pups and bitches to the great predators.  “What did you do?”

In response, Harry walked over to a certain pup who’d been gamboling about with a few of the others that were still awake, cradling it in his arms even as he stepped over the temporary fencing they’d cobbled together with help from Illyrio’s servants.  Moving to Benjen, he shoved the pup – who had a pure-black coat and grey eyes – into his friend’s arms, forcing him to take him lest the pup fall.

“His name’s Snuffles.”  Was all the explanation Benjen was given for his hands-full of direwolf pup that he lifted up to look at and got happy-puppy-licks in response.

“Please…please don’t tell me you’re going to do what I’m thinking.”  He nearly begged even as he gave into the inevitable – both from puppy-eyes and the mulish set of Harry’s jaw – and cuddled the little mite.  Though he might have to do something about the name…even as he saw the humor in it.  “My good-sisters will have my balls for a necklace.  Please…  Harry…”  He whined when Tyrion and Harry traded a look and broke down into snickers.

“Sorry, Padfoot.”  Harry clapped him on the back.  “Guess it’s the vet for you.”

“Where did you even find them?”  Benjen asked, then shook his head.  They were in Pentos.  Ask a dumb question…  “Nevermind that.  Why did you get, what,” he took a quick count.  “Sixteen?  Sixteen direwolves?”  That was more squeak than question.  “Gods…Lya’s going to kill me too…”

After all, the Queen hadn’t made a prohibition on her children’s uncles giving them gifts…so long as said gifts didn’t come in an egg and breathe fire once hatched before they were grown princes and princesses.

“A life in a cage is no more befitting a direwolf, Benjen.”  Harry explained, pinching the bridge of his nose with a weary sigh.  “Than a life in chains or collar befits either dragons or men.  I couldn’t leave them once I found them.”

“No, I suppose you couldn’t.”  Benjen took a moment’s comfort in the soft fur of the all-black pup before the sound of hoofbeats on stone reminded him of the _original_ issue that had him apparating back to the manse to seek out Harry.  “Ah…Harry?”

“Yeah?”

“I, _may_ , have a problem…”

Harry and Tyrion groaned in unison as Inanna came over and stared down at her human in a portrait of Not Amused Dragon.

“Benjen…”  Harry cursed under his breath.  The last time he’d come to him and used those words, Harry almost ended up seconding him in an honor-duel over some lord’s daughter who _swore_ up and down to the Seven that Benjen had stolen her maidenhead

He hadn’t.

He _had_ however, taken the girl to bed, none the wiser of her plot to entrap him.

Between them, Harry and Tyrion had found the household guard who had done the original deed – servants gossip was a most _excellent_ tool in the right (or wrong) hands – and the blustering father had withdrawn his accusations.  Last Harry had heard, that girl, one Alys Cerwyn, had been forced into marriage with said guard and unhappily living in her father’s house, not unlike what had occurred between Benjen’s good-sister Lysa and the ne’er-do-well disgraced Petyr Baelish.

At Harry’s warning tone the entire story – which to neither friends nor dragon’s surprise included a woman…because of course it did – came tumbling out as the sound of hoofbeats on stone grew ever nearer…and more than one or two horses at that.

“I was in the markets when Inanna told me she’d seen a party to the east of the markets.  I went out and found myself among other non-Dothraki at a Dothraki wedding ceremony.  Only the khal thought I stared too long at his new wife – or one of his other wives, I’m not quite sure – and now…”

“Let me guess.”  Tyrion groused, head falling into his hands in despair over his idiot friend.  Tyrion was no saint, but of the two of them, Benjen’s cock had gotten them into more scrapes than all of Harry’s rotten luck and Tyrion’s jibes put together.  “Being insulted, he started shouting at you, you took discretion as the better part of valor, and now we are about to be visited by an angry _khal_ plus, what do they call them, blood-brothers, blood-riders, something like that.”

“That…”  Benjen shifted, shrugging a shoulder.  “Is probably, maybe, 99.9% likely.”

“Whose wedding was it, do you know?”  Harry asked, playing voice-of-reason as he always did when the two of them got into it.  Honestly, if they both weren’t such ardent admirers of breasts and pussy, Harry would just tell them to fuck and get it over with.  As things stood, their clashing – often over being too much alike rather than their differences – could lead to days, weeks, or even months of snarking and Harry after the last year was fresh out of fucks to give while they muddled through it themselves.

Benjen just shrugged.

He didn’t speak Valyrian, only read it, let alone the Pentosi dialect and had never even _heard_ Dothraki – rather guttural to his ear – before that day.

“Fantastic.”  Harry closed his eyes and forced his sudden exhaustion away.  “Benjen – inside and stay there until I send Prongs for you.  Tyrion if you would be so good as to find our host?  I believe he may be able to help with the language barrier if nothing else.”

“What are you going to do?”  Benjen asked even as he turned to follow his marching orders.

In response, Harry simply _looked_ over at a far-too-amused looking Balerion, who came over and let down a wing for Harry to climb up and settle himself in the curve of the black dragon’s neck.

“Me?”  Harry arched a mocking brow as Balerion wandered over towards the main courtyard of the manse.  “I’m going to give this Dothraki horselord something to think about other than the fact that you were staring at his bride’s teats.”

…

 


	14. Honor

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

Author’s Note: With multiple languages coming into play, remember that when Balerion or any of the dragons are speaking it’s mentally to their rider or whoever they have a bond with.

Italics between two parties such as Ser Jorah and the Dothraki or Illyrio and the Dothraki denote that they’re speaking Dothraki, with any other languages shifts (hopefully) noted as Valyrian or what have you.

**Chapter Thirteen: Honor**

Ser Jorah Mormont, disgraced son and exiled former lord of House Mormont, had never been so of two minds in his life.

He had brought shame upon his House, broke his father’s heart, and fled for his life from Westeros, his faithless wife with him.  She had stayed behind in Lys as Jorah went off with the Golden Company to win the gold to appease her expensive tastes, only to have taken up with a wealthy Lyseni in his absence and scorned him for his weakness.  His fate was his own fault, his own choices had brought them upon his head.

And yet, when Khal Moro demanded if Khal Drogo’s Jorah-the-Andal could find the Andal man who had stared at his new bride, he had felt a thrill of savage glee.

Perhaps he had been in Essos too long.

Too long removed from the ideals and vows of his knighthood.

And still, there had been a sense of satisfaction in telling both Khals, the one with which he’d gained a friendship and a place in his khalasar after his wife’s defection and the one who was at times Drogo’s ally, that he did indeed know who this Andal was.

How could he not?

Jorah was a man of the North and he knew a Stark when he saw one.

Moreover, there was only _one_ Stark he’d ever heard tell of who would be wearing the sigil of the Dragonborn Golden Prince of House Targaryen upon his cloak pin.

Benjen Stark, the youngest son of Lord Rickard Stark who had given Jorah the choice of the headsman or exile.

Khal Moro was determined to find Ser Benjen and fight him to the death.

Jorah knew where he was likely to be and knew also that it wouldn’t take much for Moro to find Benjen himself as the Khal had determined to set off and ask Magister Illyrio if he knew this Andal Benjen Stark.

He also knew that killing Benjen Stark wasn’t going to be as easy as the Khal thought it.

There was only _one_ reason why Jorah could think Benjen Stark would be in Pentos and it had everything to do with the rumors of dragons in the skies and Prince Jaeherys Targaryen.

Khal Moro might be able to kill Benjen Stark or he might not.

That wasn’t the point or the problem, which was that if Jaeherys _was_ in Pentos as the rumors had it, then this was no simple matter of an insult but one of honor as Jaeherys would never allow Benjen to die for a slight to a Dothraki’s pride.

No, whether by steel or dragonfire, this wasn’t going to go how Khal Moro thought it would.

The only question was how to warn Khal Drogo without stepping on testy Dothraki toes.

 _“Khal Drogo.”_ Jorah pulled up alongside the man who was perhaps one of the finest killers alive.

One of the finest killers alive…about to meet one of the others.

It was a disaster in the making and one he hoped to prevent to keep his own hide intact if nothing else.

“ _Jorah the Andal.”_ Drago nodded to the Westerosi.  _“You know this man who insulted Khal Moro?”_

 _“I know of him.”_ Jorah admitted as they allowed a bit of distance to come between the party of Khal Moro with his bloodriders and Khal Drogo and his, Jorah with them.  “ _His face belongs to a long line of Khals in my homeland.  They are hard to mistake.”_

_“Who is he?”_

_“The youngest son of a Khal.”_ Jorah told him honestly.  _“This khal, Khal Rickard, was the one who banished me.  His son, Benjen, left the service of his father and brother many years ago to serve another Khal.  The younger brother of the Westerosi Khal-of-Khals, Khal Jaeherys.  If what I know is still true, Benjen who Moro hunts, is Khal Jaeherys’s bloodrider.”_

Drogo scowled at that as his own bloodriders muttered.

_“Who is this Khal Jaeherys?”_

_“He is the Dragonborn.”_ Jorah supplied as they came to the manse of Magister Illyrio.  _“Blood of Valyria.  A dragon rider, as are his two bloodriders.”_

They would have questioned him further, only they had to take rein as Khal Moro and his bloodriders came to a snorting-stamping-screaming stop, and not all on the part of the horses.

Not that Jorah could blame him as he saw what greeted them:  Magister Illyrio, his servants, a dwarf with the golden hair and lion sigil cloak-pin of House Lannister, and a great black dragon with none other than Prince Jaeherys himself seated astride it at where the neck met the shoulders.

The Dothraki all spoke in a flurry that was far too fast for Jorah to keep track of, hearing perhaps only one word in a dozen, and those were not enough to get any sense of things other than there being a clear divide between the two Khals now that they were face-to-snout with a dragon.

Brave men liked to talk of dragon hunting.

Few were ever stupid enough to attempt it, even before the Valyrians conquered most of the Known World on dragonback.

It was likely the first time any blooded Dothraki had come face-to-face with something they didn’t have a reasonable chance of killing in living memory.

A story to tell their children, should any of them survive it.

Which given the iced-over green eyes and blank expression on Prince Jaeherys, who had long been known as the most pleasant, affable, and charming of his brothers – off a battlefield at least – wasn’t a guarantee at the moment.

Khal Moro and his bloodriders moved closer to Illyrio – and farther from the dragon and its rider, even as Prince Jaeherys, having made his point, stood and descended from his dragon’s back with all the grace of a water dancer walking down the steps to the Moon Pool outside the Sealord’s Palace in Braavos.

Drogo was being obvious in his study of the Dragonborn while Khal Moro argued back and forth with the fat magister and the dwarf.

They weren’t of interest to him.

Hadn’t been since the moment he drew rein and saw the Two-Natured seated with dignity on the back of a great dragon.

 _“What do they say, Jorah-the-Andal?”_ Drogo asked as he watched the Dragonborn glide down the wing of his dragon, stopping a split-second to run his hand down the great beast’s neck as Drogo had done with his favorite mount a thousand-thousand times.

 _“Moro has demanded combat against Benjen for the insult of his stare.  The dwarf has refused, in a much less polite manner than Mopatis told Moro.”_ Jorah translated the situation as best as could be done with the significant differences between Dothraki and Common Westerosi.  _“In Westeros it is not considered honorable for a Khal to take up arms against another Khal’s bloodrider outside of a battle.  They bring the offense to the bloodrider’s Khal instead.  If an agreement cannot be reached it is brought to the Khal-of-Khals to settle or results in feuding between the Khals.”_

Drogo gave a grunt at that.  Andals were complicated.  Spoke too many words and needed too many things.

Dark intense eyes locked on the Dragonborn when he spoke for the first time since the Dothraki’s arrival.  The Dragonborn looked different than any man or two-natured Drogo had seen before.  His skin was moon-pale, almost a match for the moonlight-silver of the hair by his ears and temples, the rest a sunlight-gold.  And his eyes were as green as the richest grasses in deep spring.

Tall, and strong Drogo could also see from how the Dragonborn moved.

Clothes like the Andals favored could hide a man’s strength but his movement never lied.

_“What does he say?”_

_“He says,”_ Jorah sighed, shaking his head.  It was what he’d been afraid of.  _“That Moro cannot have his bloodrider either in battle or in gift.  That if the insult must be payed in blood it will be against the Dragonborn as the bloodrider’s Khal.”_

_“Is this an Andal way?”_

_“Trial by combat.”_ Jorah nodded.  “ _One accused of a crime or offense could choose to have it judged by the gods through combat against their accuser or the accuser’s champion.  If the accused could not or would not fight themselves, another could fight on their behalf.  Such things could range from first-blood to death.”_

 _“Moro will want death.”_ Drogo gave a soft snort.  Always was foolish.  As if a Khal’s bloodriders would allow their Khal’s death to go unavenged.  And the Dragonborn’s bloodriders rode _dragons_ not horses.  _“He will want to kill the Dragonborn now that he has made vow before the moon and stars.”_

Drogo was unsurprised to hear that very thing spoken by Moro, arching a dark brow as the Dragonborn simply nodded and spoke again.

“ _Dawn.”_ Jorah supplied.  _“That is the time when his people do such things.”_

_“His people are not your people?”_

_“Some would think they are.”_ Jorah tried to explain it in a way a Dothraki would grasp.  _“Khal Jaeherys’s ancestor conquered the Andals with his khalasar and his dragons.  My people were not Andals but men who had fought the Andals and kept them from our lands.  It wasn’t until Khal Jaeherys’s ancestor that Westeros was united into a single khalasar.  He is Valyrian, a dragon rider, not Andal.  From the ruins of Old Valyrian south of Mantarys.”_

_“What is Dragonborn?”_

_“Two-natured.”_ Jorah supplied.  _“He can be both mother and father to his children.  And he brought back the dragons, hatched eggs long thought turned to stone and gifted many of them to his family and his bloodriders.”_

…

“Are you seriously going to fight an honor duel for Benjen?”  Tyrion asked incredulously as he chased Jaeherys through Illyrio’s manse to where Benjen was awaiting them in his rooms.  “Why not let him fight his way out of this himself?”

“Because while Benjen is a capable fighter and commander, the Dothraki are some of the best killers alive.”

“Well, yes, but…”

“What other choice do I have, Tyrion?”  Harry near-snapped at his friend.  “Let Benjen die because his eyes lingered a moment too long on a horselord’s bride?  Burn Khal Moro’s khalasar to the ground, every man woman and child?  Other than giving him the fight he obviously wants to test his strength against a Westerosi, there is nothing else to be done.”

“We could leave.”  Tyrion pointed out the rather obvious solution.

“And have the Dothraki spreading tales of the Dragonborn being a coward from one end of Essos to the other?”  Harry rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t say it was a _good_ choice, but it _is_ a choice.  Harry.”  Tyrion reached out and grabbed his friend’s arm, stopping him in his tracks.  “As you said yourself, the Dothraki are some of the best killers alive.  You barely survived the magic you performed in Valyria.  Are you _entirely_ certain that now is the best timing to pick a fight with a Dothraki Khal?”

“I didn’t start it.”  Harry told him simply.  “But I will end it one way or another.”

“The bloodriders won’t let you just kill their Khal and fly away.”  Tyrion pointed out, he knew enough of Dothraki culture to know that much.  “The three of them will attack you the moment he falls.”

 _If_ he falls.

“Then I’d best be ready when they do.”  Was all the response he got, then Harry sighed.  “Will you tell Benjen what’s going on and have Inanna sit on him if need be to keep him out of anymore trouble?  I want a hot bath and a good sleep if I’m going to be fighting for my life come the morn.”

“And what am I to tell Mother Rhaella if you _don’t_ survive?”

“Tell her you tried your best to talk be out of it but I was a stubborn mule.”  Harry flashed a quick grin.  “At least you won’t have to worry about trying to avenge me since Balerion has every intention of eating Dothraki for his breakfast if anything happens to me.”

“Should just let him have Dothraki for supper and save me the ulcer this worry is causing me…”

And the peel Queen Rhaella was sure to ring down on both his and Benjen’s heads.  Benjen’s for starting the problem and Tyrion for not diffusing it before Jaeherys had to step in.  It was their way.

More than one arrogant knight in Westeros and cocky pirate in the Stepstones had cause to learn over the years of the cost of rattling the cage of Jaeherys’s honor.

And nothing was surer to do so than attacking his family as both Benjen and Tyrion are in all but name.

…

“Tell me about the Dothraki.”  Jaeherys half-asked and half-demanded of Illyrio as the two shared a flagon of fine Tyroshi pear brandy, the two speaking in High Valyrian as a precaution against enterprising eavesdroppers.  He’d finished bathing, already loath to leave the manse for that if nothing else, when the magister had arrived with a servant and the brandy to help him sleep.  Illyrio wasn’t best-pleased that a Prince of House Targaryen was going to be fighting an honor duel while a guest of his hospitality.  Still, he would support him.  His Vow wouldn’t allow otherwise.

“They are a restless, savage people.”  Mopatis told him without ado.  “Always on the move unless attending the Dosh Khaleen at their holy city of Vaes Dothrak.”

“They’re raiders.”

“Yes,” Illyrio nodded.  “Histories show that for many years they warred amongst each other before being united into a single _khalasar_ to fight the Sarnor kings.  None of the kings took them seriously, treated them with contempt for living their lives beneath the open sky.”

“Until the Dothraki rode through them like a scythe through wheat.”  Harry commented.  “Yes, I know the stories.”  He waved this away, it wasn’t what he wanted to know.  “I know of their bloodriders, what are their other traditions.  How do they choose their leaders?”

Ah.  Illyrio nodded as understanding broke over him.  The question was one of culture not history or other scholarly information.

With the coming fight in the morning and the temperament of Jaeherys, it was no wonder.

Jaeherys Targaryen, as Illyrio had had cause to discover for himself, was a man who found weaknesses and loopholes with an ease that would impress the most viciously cunning Lyseni sea-traders.

And then used them against you without blinking an eye.

A most-curious amalgamation of ideals, morals, and cunning was Jaeherys Targaryen.

If naught else, him having agency in the world should make life interesting…and that was before one added in the army, fleet of ships, and dragon all waiting on his commands.

One word from the man across from him and the entire world would burn.

It was a bit of a thrill, sitting there in conversation with the most powerful man in the world, discussing his possible death on the morn like another would debate the value of a curved Essosi _arakh_ sword over the straight swords preferred in Westeros for their ability to pierce the weaker joints plate armor.

“The Dothraki follow strength.”  Illyrio told him.  “A Khal might have killed another Khal to take over a khalasar.  They might have broken away from a Khal they did not want to follow and formed their own khalasar.  If a Khal’s son or khalakka, is a child when his father dies then the child is killed as well, seen as too weak to lead.  If they are grown then they might battle against the captains of the khalasar, the kos, for control of his father’s horde.”

“And they don’t wear armor?”

“No, your grace.”  Illyrio told him, taking a sip of brandy.  “Some might favor leather vests, but no armor to speak of.”

Harry gave a slow smile at that, one which had Illyrio wondering just what was going on in that tricky brain.

Little did either man know, but they weren’t the only ones discussing new cultures that night.

…

Across the city in the manse of Khal Drogo, a nine-towered “gift” from the magisters to keep him pleased with the city as he rode at the head of the largest khalasar in Essos, two others were having a similar discussion, though with more of a struggle as Jorah’s Dothraki wasn’t near so good as either Illyrio’s or Jaeherys’s High Valyrian.

Drogo sat with his bloodriders Cohollo, Qotho, and Haggo, sharing skeins of pepper beer as they talked with Jorah the Andal, Drogo in particular interested in the Dragonborn while his bloodriders were mostly intrigued by the dragon.

“ _No, no_.”  Jorah shook his head, waving one hand as he tried to explain a concept – mainly primo geniture – to the Dothraki.  “ _Westerosi do not do as such.  When a Westerosi Khal dies, unless some property was given to his other children, it all becomes the khalakka’s.  All, no matter the age of the khalakka.”_

“ _You would follow a child?”_ Cohollo asked in disbelief, sharing an incredulous look with his blood-of-his-blood.  _“A child has no strength.”_

 _“There are different kinds of strength in Westeros than just fighting.”_ Jorah told them, taking a drink of beer.  _“Gold, the loyalty or love of your people.  All play a part.  When a khalakka is young when a khal dies, then the khal’s brother or the khalessi will help manage things until the khalakka is old enough to be khal.  The Westerosi Khal-of-Khals Rhaegar was only sixteen when his father died, Khal Jaeherys just over a year, and Khal Viserys not yet born.  Khalessi Rhaella helped her son, as did Khal Aerys’s advisors, but he was still a man grown and knighted when he became the Khal-of-Khals.”_

 _“If the Khal-of-Khals was given all of his father’s horses and gold and horde.”_ Drogo frowned, staring into the fire they were gathered around but seeing little there but a pair of deep green eyes.  “ _How did Khal Jaeherys and Khal Viserys become khals if not through victory?”_

 _“Most sons of khals become either khals themselves, especially if their father was the Khal-of-Khals, or bloodriders or kos for a khal.”_ Jorah struggled a bit to put it correctly in Dothraki.  Some concepts just did not crossover.  _“Westeros has not gone to war since before Khal Rhaegar became Khal-of-Khals.  He keeps the peace between his khals, and Westeros thrives richer every year.  Khal Jaeherys is a warrior.”_ A flicker of reluctant respect came into his tone.  _“All three of Khal Aerys’s sons were trained as fighters and warriors.  From what I have heard, Khal Viserys was given command of a land called “_ Summerhall _” where Khal Jaeherys rebirthed the dragons into the world.”_

 _“Khal Jaeherys did this?”_ Qotho shifted with a grimace.  _“Birthed dragons?”_

 _“Not birthed.”_ Jorah shook his head.  _“Hatched?  Khal Rhaegar had tasked Khal Jaeherys with rebuilding Summerhall before he would give him leave to form his own khalasar.  Out of respect for his brother, Jaeherys did so and found the dragons there.  He hatched them, rebuilt the palace, and asked to be freed from his duty to Khal Rhaegar and Westeros.  Khal Viserys was given Summerhall where he and his dragon watch over and protect the other dragon eggs until their riders are chosen, he is expected to wed another Khal or a khalakka soon, as he is another two-natured Targaryen.”_

Jorah let them ponder over that a moment then continued.

_“Khal Jaeherys is a warrior.  Undefeated in battle or duel since becoming a man and trained by the best warriors Westeros has had in living memory.  Khal Moro has challenged a dragonrider who has no need of his dragon to win victories or kill men to single combat.  Should he win, that dragon just might burn Pentos and both khalasars to the ground in grief.”_

_“A dragon would do this, not the bloodriders?”_ Drogo asked.  No animal he had ever met would do such a thing on their own volition.  Not without the command of men.

 _“A dragon is not a horse, Khal Drogo.”_ Jorah explained.  _“Or a dog to be trained.  When Khaleesi Rhaenys died almost three hundred years ago with her dragon Meraxes, Khal-of-Khals Aegon and his dragon Balerion the Black Dread burned a bloody path through the people who killed her.  Balerion did this, as did the dragon Vhagar, without a rider upon them at times.  And Balerion is the name of the dragon that Jaeherys has hatched and now rides.”_

The conversation veered away into other topics, Jorah remaining by the fire even after the bloodriders had left for their tents, able to read Drogo well enough after the last few years to know there was something on his mind.

_“Khals take each other as khaleesi in Rhaesh Andahli?”_

_“Some do.”_ Jorah told him _.  “Most take the daughters of other khals as khaleesi, but some will join their khalasar with that of a two-natured khal such as Khal Viserys is expected to do as a third-son.  Khal Rhaegar took the daughter of one of his most powerful khals as his khaleesi, my former khal, Khal Rickard.  Khaleesi Lyanna is one of the most beautiful women in Westeros and has given Khal Rhaegar three strong sons and four beautiful daughters who will wed Khals in time.  That is the way there.”_

_“Do they never take women from other lands for their own?”_

_“Some do.”_ Jorah repeated himself.  _“Khalakka Oberyn of Dorne is famous in Westeros for his eight daughters by five women, one of which was the daughter of a khal from Volantis.”_

Drogo gave an understanding grunt of that, seeming content to stare into the flames, at which Jorah rose to his feet to find his own bed.

Targaryens, he knew from the histories, were often too beautiful and sought-after for their own good as the posturing over who Rhaegar would take to wife had caused no end of trouble.  He hoped that Drogo would get over his fascination with Jaeherys.  He couldn’t see any good coming of it and Jaeherys would never be content as a horselord’s khaleesi even if he wasn’t well-known in Westeros for having a deep dislike of slavery and slavers like the Dothraki, a trait that none in Essos seemed to be aware of – yet.

…

Jorah was unsurprised when they arrived just before dawn at the field outside Pentos where Khal Moro’s khalasar had made their camp to find that an almost festive air had perfumed the breeze along with the magisters of Pentos and others who had the time or ability to come and witness a sight never before seen: a Dothraki Khal and a Targaryen Prince fighting to the death.

And those that hadn’t come for the duel had come to see another sight beyond living memory: a trio of dragons who were at the furthest point of the camp and arranged as the three points of a triangle with the “dueling ground” between them.  The black was as monstrous big as Jorah had remembered from the night before, his mind not playing tricks on him thanks to pepper beer, made even more large in estimation as it stood much taller than either the red or grey who were about the same size, the grey perhaps a foot or two taller at the shoulder than the red.  Two men in Westerosi dress stood among a group of Pentoshi guards and Magister Mopatis, along with a tall man with gleaming ivory skin who wore nothing but boots and leggings that looked made of dragonhide.

Jaeherys had dressed to equal Khal Moro in every way from his top half being bared to the long braid – far more complex in weaving than what the Dothraki favored – threaded with silver bells for his victories and banded with iron-grey dragonbone, both decorations different in material but exact in design as the Dothraki’s.

Other than the matter of coloring, perhaps the largest difference between the two men were their swords.

Dothraki used swords of Essosi make and design called _arakhs_ , that had a curve which made them excellent weapons for fighting against unarmored or lightly armored opponents.

Being a Westerosi knight, Jaeherys had a straight sword that was currently being held by Tyrion Lannister in its sheath as Khal Drogo and his party rode up to join the more important “guests” of the fight such as Magister Mopatis who stood half-way (as did most of the Pentoshi) between the trio of Westerosi and the grouping of Dothraki that included Khal Moro, his wives and two children, and his bloodriders.  Jorah could also see several sheaths strapped to Prince Jaeherys’s legs and tucked into the waist of his dragonhide pants, containing knives of various purpose if he was anything like the Dornishmen that he’d grown up around thanks to King Rhaegar’s close friendship with Ser Arthur Dayne and Prince Lewyn Martell’s position on the Kingsguard.  If memory served him, Oberyn Martell had also been present in King’s Landing for years as he served on the Small Council before fucking off back to Sunspear or aboard when he got bored.

While the rest of the Seven Kingdoms tended to favor large straight swords with a dagger for emergencies or hunting or for general use, the Dornish had several different classes of daggers and knives, each designed to complete a purpose from throwing knives to jagged-edged blades designed to rend flesh to simple straight blades.

At least Jorah wouldn’t have to wait long to see what sort of blades Jaeherys thought appropriate to face off against a Dothraki Khal.

 _“He has no scars.”_ Khal Drogo frowned as he noticed what was _off_ about the ivory skin on display.  He’d never seen an undefeated warrior before – even one with only a half-dozen bells in his braid – without scaring.

 _“He does.”_ Jorah corrected, tapping his own chest and arms to point to where he saw the tell-tale white-silver tissues.  _“Plate armor prevents most injury, but not all.”_

 _“Khal Moro will give him a few more if he survives.”_   Was Drogo’s bloodrider Haggo’s near-grunted observation.

“ _They don’t seem worried_.”  Jorah told them with a dry tone, tilting his head to where Benjen Stark – the cause of all this – and Tyrion Lannister were laughing and joking with Prince Jaeherys as they clasped arms.  Just in case, one would think.  Stark broke away and made his way to where they were standing with Magister Mopatis, Lannister remaining with the Prince as they waited for Khal Moro to make his way into the makeshift “ring” for the fight.

 _“That dragon has a saddle.”_   Drogo noted, gesturing to the red.  _“But not the others.”_

_“It is probably the dwarf’s dragon.”_

_“It is.”_ Magister Mopatis told them with a nod.  _“The other two dragonriders do not use saddles.”_

Benjen came over and spoke to Illyrio before fading back into the crowd, something which Jorah noted with a raised brow.

 _“The Dragonborn is ready_.”  Jorah translated for the surrounding Dothraki.  _“Now we wait for Khal Moro.”_

They didn’t have to wait long.

Magister Illyrio stepped forward, motioning for both fighters to meet in the middle of the ring.

What was said there was pitched too low to be overheard, but whatever it was, Moro had struck home with his words as even from thirty yards away Jorah saw Prince Jaeherys’s back stiffen and shoulders square.

Then Jorah hissed as Jaeherys pulled his sword from the sheath, showing off the rippling blade that spoke of Valyrian steel in the bright morning sun, Tyrion Lannister walking back with the Magister and the empty sheath as Jaeherys turned the sword in his hand and stabbed it downward into the ground, burying it a good six inches in so that it would stand.

“ _What has happened?”_ Drogo demanded, confused as were the other Dothraki as to the meaning of the gesture.

 _“It is a grave insult offered by Khal Jaeherys to Khal Moro in our culture.”_ Jorah explained even as he fought with his instincts which were _screaming_ at him to run out there and argue the Prince into _picking up his fucking sword_.  _“Whatever Moro said must have roused his temper, a thing called ‘waking the dragon’ in Westeros for the children of Old Valyria.  Khal Jaeherys has sworn with his actions to not use his sword against Khal Moro…because he is not worth the honor of dying by his blade.”_

 _“Khal Moro threatened the dragon.”_ Mopatis enlightened them, Jorah wincing at that.

All Westeros knew that the Targaryens were more attached to their dragons in many cases than a lord was his heir or other children or the Dothraki their favored horses.

 _“Khal Moro is like an ox.”_ Drogo snorted, crossing his arms over his massive chest, refusing to worry over the pretty gold-silver haired man.  _“Strong but stupid.”_

Well, Jorah decided as he watched Prince Jaeherys take said Khal apart, Drogo wasn’t wrong.

 _“What kind of knife is that?”_ Cohollo asked, keen on the strange design that was notched all along one side as he watched the Valyrian use it to lock up Khal Moro’s _arakh_ , giving him enough time as Moro was confused at the action to swipe out with the knife in his other hand – one which Cohollo had seen used before in battle, that curved inward toward the hilt – to cut deep into Moro’s wrist and forearm, severing his tendons and forcing him to drop his sword.

 _“Sword-breaker, very rare, especially made out of Valyrian steel and dragonbone like that one.”_ Jorah enlightened them.  _“In the hands of a strong enough man, it can snap a weaker or thinner sword.  From Dorne, used most to do as Khal Jaeherys did: locking and trapping a blade for an advantage in a duel, not as useful in actual battle.”_

The Dothraki all nodded in deep interest at that, all keen on the idea of such a thing but agreeing that it would be impractical for using on horseback.

While they were discussing Jaeherys’s sword-breaker, the man in question had kicked away Moro’s _arakh,_ sending it to rest between the claws of Balerion and well out of reach of the Khal who was forced to meet Jaeherys with knives and fists rather than keep the reach-advantage of the _arakh,_ Harry flipping his hold on the dagger in his off-hand (the sword-breaker) to use the cutting edge against the Dothraki.

And as Jorah had observed, proceeded to take the horse-fucking bastard apart.

 _“Why does he not end it?”_ Qotho demanded with a groan at a particularly vicious rip of the Valyrian’s kukri across Moro’s right ankle tendon that had him falling to his knees.

 _“His honor was insulted, and his friends threatened.”_ Jorah explained, Mopatis translating the conversation for Lannister as he had been since the dwarf joined them.  “ _Khal Jaeherys is making an example of him before both the Pentoshi and two khalasars, who will then spread word of what awaits any who would dare do so themselves.”_

“Some will take the warning,” Tyrion commented with a snort after Mopatis finished translating.  “Others will think it a challenge like they did his taking the Stepstones.”

Jorah did his part in translating the dual language conversation, the Dothraki mostly agreeing with the Lannister’s observation.

The Dothraki and Pentoshi alike took in the lesson Prince Jaeherys was teaching in “waking the dragon” that lay within his breast.  Dozens of cuts, from less than an inch that bled from the shallow wound to deep jagged tearing things like that which had disarmed Moro were etched into the copper skin of the horselord who had challenged a dragonrider.  One of Moro’s young wives cried and clutched her children to her breasts, her milk-white skin marking her as from Lhazar.

The other two wives of Khal Moro must have had no sons to mourn, the child – maybe a year old at most – being sobbed over in the Lhazarene’s arms likely the young _khalakka_ of Moro and sentenced to die along with his father being too young to lead the khalasar and would be killed to prevent him challenging whoever arose from Moro’s kos as the next khal or khals when he was grown, as the other wives weren’t _nearly_ as upset over the coming death of their husband, looking satisfied if anything, which fit what Jorah knew about Moro.

Though Jorah _wasn’t_ looking forward to when Prince Jaeherys learned that by killing a man who wanted to kill his closest friend, he’d also sentenced a babe-in-arms to die.

Targaryens, perhaps more than any other great house, took threats to children and child mortality _very_ seriously.

Perhaps due to issues in some recent generations of fertility and securing the future of their house.

Prince Jaeherys’s grandparents after all, King Jaehaerys who he was named for and Queen Shaera, only had two living children, with Jaehaerys himself being a sickly person all his life, and all of Westeros knew of the troubles Aerys and Rhaella faced in childbed.

Troubles that Rhaegar at least, had avoided by choosing to marry a Northern woman whose line had never intermarried with the blood of Old Valyria.

At last it came to an end, Jaeherys having felt he’d made enough of an example of Khal Moro or simply tired of his sneers, the Valyrian grabbing hold of him by his braid and dragging him with a strength that belied his slender two-natured frame, and forcing him to kneel in the center of the triangle formed by the dragons who had watched it all in silence and all-seeing eyes.

Jaeherys wiped away the blood on his sword-breaker using Moro’s hair then returned it to its sheath as they stood next to the Valyrian steel straight sword the Prince had thrust into the ground.

Despite Moro losing his sword rather early into the fight, he’d never managed to get close enough to the sword to take advantage of it.

The Golden Prince of House Targaryen stood behind Moro who bled sluggishly, made weak and slow from having tendons cut and the bleeding wounds that decorated his copper skin, washing away his blue ceremonial wedding-marks and turning his leather leggings purple at the waist.  Gripping the Dothraki’s braid in one hand and his kukri blade in the other, Jaeherys sliced the braid from his head and tossed it before the defeated call for all the world – and the khal – to see his shame before he was killed.  Moro’s bloodriders, already restless from watching the blood-of-their-blood land only a handful of blows on the Valyrian, which were bleeding as well but not enough for a trained warrior like Jaeherys to falter, roared and shouted at the insult, breaking into a run even as the kukri blade ripped through Moro’s throat, ending him at last.

Jaeherys stood calm in the face on the oncoming bloodriders, stepping forward to rest his boot on the back of the dead Moro’s neck and with a quick strike that was little more than a blur, sent _one-two-three_ daggers flying through the air from their position sheathed upon his thigh.

The first two struck home, while the third missed it’s mark due to its being expected, Jaeherys simply ducking into the wild swing of the last bloodrider’s _arakh_ and burying his kukri knife in the Dothraki’s belly then ripping it wide, spilling the bloodrider’s guts onto the now-red dirt.

Moving with languid grace as the Dothraki and Pentoshi cheered, roared and screamed at the display – and payed out wagers, which Jorah saw Lannister collecting on quite a few from the Magisters surrounding them – Jaeherys moved through the three new corpses and cut their braids, reclaiming his daggers in the process, Jorah giving a whistle at the sight of them.

Drogo looked down at him in question then back at the daggers which the Valyrian was cleaning on the clothes of his defeated opponents before putting back away.

“ _Cyclone daggers_.”  Jorah explained.  “ _Not considered an honorable weapon in Westeros.  Triple-bladed they are made only to pierce through most armor and flesh, all the way to bone if used right.  Their wounds are both painful and near-impossible to heal.  Khal Jaeherys must have known more about Dothraki than I thought.  He came to kill.”_

The Khal made to speak only to be distracted by a hue-and-cry from Moro’s kos.

And it didn’t take long to see why.

While everyone else had been distracted by the fights, Benjen Stark had slipped through the crowd and “captured” Khal Moro’s young widow, the one with the children, and the only one – including an ever-younger girl who was likely the cause of all this to begin with – who appeared to be upset with Moro’s death, if only in grief for her son.

“What is it?”  Prince Jaeherys demanded as he pushed through the mob that was queueing up just out of reach of Inanna’s snapping fangs, Benjen having brought the widow and two babes to her for use as protection, knowing well that he couldn’t fight a dozen Dothraki kos without her.

Illyrio rushed to explain as Jorah and Khal Drogo with his bloodriders came to learn of this newest trouble, Moro’s other widows already dealing with the dead along with the bloodrider’s widows and any children old enough to assist.

“The kos are demanding the boy be killed, your grace.”  Illyrio told him as the Dothraki seethed around him.  “As is tradition.  The khaleesi and her daughter will be taken to Vaes Dothrak, the khaleesi to join the Dosh Khaleen and the girl to be raised in the city before being married off to a khal or ko in time.”

Jorah didn’t consider himself _learned_ in the art of deciphering Jaeherys Targaryen’s facial expression, but even he – and the rest of the surrounding mob – could see that the Prince was _not impressed_ by these demands.

“When a khal is killed, what happens to his property?”

“As I said, the khaleesi usually goes to the Dosh Khaleen, daughters wed in time, and sons too young to lead a khalasar are killed.  The rest of his property is divided amongst his kos except for what will be placed in his pyre for him to take to the Night Lands.”

All the while, Jorah was summing up the conversation for the Dothraki, right up until Prince Jaeherys said a word that needed no translation at all.

“No.”

The Dothraki reared back, and even Illyrio spluttered.

“Beg pardon, your grace.”

Jaeherys gave a grim smile at the shock, especially as the other dragons began to follow some wordless signal and close in on the grey, scattering all but the most determined – or fearless – of the mob.

Or those who had simple interest but no investment in the situation such as Khal Drogo, his bloodriders, and Jorah.

“I said, no.”  The Prince repeated himself.  “If the woman wants to follow tradition and go to the Dosh Khaleen then fine, I won’t stop her.  But the children will not be killed or sold off.  I won’t allow it.”

Moro’s kos hissed at this disrespect for their ways, Illyrio translating to which Jaeherys shot back:

“I have the utmost respect for your ways – to a point.”  He said, then made his point.  “But this is _not_ the Dothraki Sea, it is Pentos.  And I am not a rival _khal_ , I am Prince Jaeherys Targaryen, Lord of the Stepstones.  And I. Said.  No.”

Jaeherys turned to Illyrio and Jorah, giving the disgraced Mormont his full-attention and dismissed the Dothraki that were yelling threats at him…right up until Balerion roared and the remaining Dothraki of Moro’s khalasar scattered back to a “safe” distance save for Jorah’s companions.

“Do either of you speak her language?”

“She’s Lhazarene, your grace.”  Jorah replied, giving a short bow.  “But she understands Dothraki well enough.”

“Ask her what she wants.”

Jorah explained the situation to the young girl.  Girl, as in Westeros she wouldn’t have been considered old enough to wed unless forced after her flowering.  Gods, she couldn’t be more than fourteen and with two toddlers clinging to her skirts.

She replied.

“She says her name is Ornela, your grace, and her village was destroyed.  There is no place for her but Vaes Dothrak now.”  Jorah supplied.  “But so long as you will not enslave her children, she will give them into your care.  She says…”  He sighed, rubbing one hand over his eyes in weariness.  “She says better a life as a servant to an Andal khal then the life of a Dothraki woman for her daughter and death for her son.”

Jaeherys nodded, and Ornela fell upon his legs with cries of gratitude as Benjen and Tyrion took charge of the children.

“You knew, didn’t you, your grace?”  Jorah asked after the children were taken away upon the grey and red dragons by their riders and most of the crowd dispersed, including Ornela with the rest of Moro’s widows to see to his burial and then be brought to Vaes Dothrak.  “About the boy?”

Drogo and the other Dothraki stood back from the two Westerosi, eyeing up the black dragon as Illyrio waited patiently alongside them and spoke to Khal Drogo.

“What makes you say that, Ser Jorah?”  Harry asked, directly addressing the exile for the first time.

“Benjen.”  Jorah answered.  “He’s a good man, most Starks are in their own ways, but from what I remember of him he wouldn’t have known of the tradition, and if so wouldn’t have thought of stealing the children away.  But a Targaryen?”  Jorah smirked.  “A Targaryen would.”

Harry just smirked in turn, giving Jorah a nod before turning and making his unhindered way to Balerion and took flight, ignoring any attempt to get his attention along the way.

He’d killed four men and saved two children, one from what was likely a fate worse than death if her mother’s reaction was any sign.

More, with the Dothraki hordes stirred up over his taking possession of the _khalakka_ , it would be best for the three dragonriders to make haste in leaving for Westeros…albeit with a stop at Bloodstone to drop off Harry’s new wards along the way.

“ _What did he say?”_ Drogo asked after watching dragon and man take flight.

 _“Not a thing.”_   Jorah answered honestly.  _“But from what happened it is clear to me that he knew of the khalakka’s fate and made plans to change it.  It is a very…Targaryen thing to do, challenging fate.”_

 


	15. Sovereignty

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Fourteen: Sovereignty**

“How are we traveling?”  Tyrion asked as Harry jumped from Balerion and landed cat-like on his feet in Illyrio’s courtyard.

“With haste.”  Harry told him, already cleaned and dressed after his fight – though his chest was still bare as he needed some alcohol dumped on his cuts and a few bandages before he ruined a shirt – thanks to a few spells in the half-minute it took Balerion to cross the city and land.  “They’ll be distracted burning their dead, but are _beyond_ furious that I’ve taken the children instead of letting them carry out their traditions.”

“Do you think the girl will pay for it?”

“Doubt it.”  Harry told his friends as they pushed through the palace to where the children were being seen to and cleaned up by Illyrio’s servants, Tyrion knowing without being told that Harry would want to see them before looking in on the packing.  “Dothraki could give less of a shit about their women – or at least the ones like Moro and his men do.”  _Did,_ he smirked a bit to himself, without a shred of guilt for the dead quartet of Dothraki anymore than he’d feel guilt over putting down a pack of rabid dogs…if not less as at least the dogs didn’t _choose_ their lot.  Moro and his lot _had_ and paid Harry’s price for it.  “And the other Dothraki khal and his horde were just there for entertainment from what I could tell.”

“Seemed _awfully_ interested in you for just wanting entertainment.”  Tyrion noted with his incisive insight.  “Asked plenty of questions about your weaponry and actions.”

Not to mention, Tyrion thought, that the big one _Khal Drogo_ had looked at Harry like he was the last drink of water to be found in all the Red Waste.

Tyrion wasn’t about to _tell_ Harry that, but it didn’t make it any less true.

True to form, Harry shrugged off the Dothraki problem aside from making sure they were well gone from Pentos before the dead khal’s _kos_ could try and cause problems.  To quote the Red Keep master-at-arms and Benjen’s brother Ned, Harry would worry about the Dothraki when they taught their horses to run on water… _or_ when he came next to within a day’s ride of the Dothraki Sea.

At one and two years old – approximately, according to what Ornela had told them – Adi and the boy, who Ornela had not given his name, likely to protect him should he ever return to the Essosi mainland, that Harry was mulling over names for, the little ones didn’t quite understand what was going on.

Other than they had been handed over by their mother and that they’d flown on dragonback.

That last was probably all that really mattered to them at the moment, at least until the stress of being essentially orphaned and turned over to strangers set in.

Harry himself, in both his own and Balerion’s opinion, couldn’t take the kids to Winterfell with him for the tournament and throw them head-first into Westerosi politics.  They may not be his blood-children, but Harry _had_ claimed them as his wards, making them powerful pieces in the game of thrones.  Pawns only at the moment.  But in time possible players as well.

He would do all he could to keep them away from it.

Starting with taking them to Marya Seaworth to look after on Bloodstone until Harry and the rest of his men who were on furlough for the tournament and to visit their families returned from Westeros.

“What do you think of Chanda for the little boy?”  Harry asked as they watched the children go through the bewildering – to them – new adventure of being bathed and dressed in simple but sturdy traveling clothes by Illyrio’s ever-efficient staff.

“Sounds fine.”  Tyrion said non-committal on the subject.  “Bit odd to the Westerosi ear.”

“Well, they’re not Westerosi.”  Harry said with a wry smile as the newly-dubbed Chanda slapped and crowed with glee at the warm water of the tub.  “So that’s fitting.”

…

Benjen had been busy as well, going from his to Tyrion’s to Harry’s rooms and shrinking and packing all their purchases from the markets and sorting them into packs, then making certain that all the animals Harry had collected including his own Snuffles were readied for travel.

Neither of them _liked_ using in-your-face magic, but when facing the option of either convincing the dragons to let themselves be used as pack animals or sending Tyrion-plus-cages to Bloodstone via portkey, the portkey won.

Tyrion complained when they arrived some five hours after he’d touched down in Harry’s rooms at Bloodstone – one of the only places they could be _certain_ was unoccupied…or at least it better be.

Harry could sympathize, having hated magical travel all his life unless it included flight.

Once the children had been fed and calmed, they were ready to take their leave, Magister Illyrio seeing them off and wishing them well, then once the kids – both in front-carry slings, Adi with Benjen and Chanda with Harry – got over the excitement of flying each man put them to sleep in turn with a gentle sleeping charm.

 _“The Dothraki won’t take kindly to your flouting of their traditions.”_ Balerion warned once he sensed that Harry’s mind had calmed from the storm that had filled it after the calm of the fights had broken.  _“They’ll remember that you took two children from them.”_

 _“The forsook all claim to Chanda once it was clear they would kill him.”_ Harry countered.  “ _And Adi was given to me.”_

 _“By her mother, not whatever khal or khals will arise from the ashes of Moro’s khalasar.”_   Balerion snorted.  _“A difference that will mean quite a lot to some people.”_

 _“A worry for another day.”_ Harry gave a heavy sigh, already not looking forward to explaining what he’d been doing since taking Torturer’s Deep to his brother…let alone Mum.  _“Right now I just want us to turn the kiddos over to Marya to mother and fuss over and then rest a night before the tournament and facing the music for my long absence.”_

_“At least you remembered gifts, so that’s one thing…”_

…

Captain Davos Seaworth was part-shocked and part-pleased to come home after a long day of patrolling the waters off Bloodstone and keeping the other captains of Prince Jaeherys’s fleet (including Salladhor and his sell-sails) in line to find none other than the Prince himself sitting in his kitchen and talking to his wife Marya, a copper-skinned tyke that he’d never seen before being dandled on his knee as the two spoke and laughed and kept a canny eye on Davos’s youngest son Asher, who was coming up on his third nameday and playing with another copper-skinned child who was at the toddling stage and a girl if her long black hair was any sign.

The Prince had been as good as his word to Davos and his family.

Where Davos had thought that perhaps they might be given homes – as promised for himself and his two eldest sons who were captains in their own right – in Bloodstone’s equivalent of Fleabottom, they’d been gifted fine homes in the “gentry/near-noble” section of the island city-fortress that was also home to the families of many of the younger sons that swelled the ranks of the so-called “Dragon Company” or “Harry’s Thousand” who had sworn loyalty to Prince Jaeherys and followed him from Westeros to the Stepstones.  Three fine homes, all large enough for however many children they’d have plus staff, with kitchen-gardens and fresh water from the Bloodstone wells.  It was better than any former-smuggler had any right to hope for.

And Prince Jaeherys had given over the deeds without batting an eye.

His second-eldest Allard had decided to rent his home out to traders or merchants as without a wife and spending most of his time aboard his ship the _Lady Marya_ , he had no need at present for his own establishment.

Dale’s wife Violet, however, an innkeeper’s daughter who had fallen for a good-hearted rogue much as Davos’s Marya, a carpenter’s daughter, and married down as a result, had fit-to-burst poor Dale’s eardrums with her shrieks of joy over their tidy home that stood ‘tween the homes of her good-brother’s rental property and the home of the rest of her good-family.

Last Davos had heard from Dale before he’d taken the _Wraith_ for a long patrol of the outer edges of the Stepstone with a half-dozen other ships, they were trying and praying for a child now that they had a home of their own and a steady income, both thanks to Prince Jaeherys Targaryen.

His Marya was glad to have the security of being sworn to a royal house as well, for as shrewd a businessman as Tyrion Lannister or Jaeherys Targaryen could be in negotiating with the likes of Salla or ships wishing for passage through the Stepstones, both were open-handed and generous with their loyal retainers.

Enough to the point that his Marya was making noises regarding another child, which he _hoped_ given that the Prince had brought a pair of what he thought might be Dothraki or Ghiscari based on the skin tone, they’d yet to succeed at.

There was only one reason he could think of that a lord or prince might bring children to visit with one of his loyal bannermen, at it had words such as “ward” and “fostering” flitting through his mind.

And in that Davos turned out to be exactly right.

Marya could do nothing but coo over the wee tykes that were for all-intents-and-purposes orphans and shoot _wanting_ looks at her blustery-but-sweet husband.

They took them in.

Of course they did, a war such as what the Prince was preparing for was no place for wee ones.

That the Seaworths were to be granted a stipend to care for the children hadn’t even occurred to either of them when they agreed – much to Jaeherys’s visible amusement – simply cemented the choice Harry had made the moment he’d heard from Illyrio of the traditions regarding young children of Khals among the Dothraki.

…

_Winterfell, Lord’s Chambers, 296 AC_

King Rhaegar came to a halt at the sight of his brother Jaeherys sitting on a chair – that most definitely hadn’t been there before – beside a large stack of animal cages that had various animals therein…mostly direwolf pups from what he could tell and had him already bracing himself for another argument over Harry’s tendency towards spoiling their children with gifts to make up for his long absences.

They’d arrived at Winterfell the week before, with the tourney celebrating his good-nephew’s knighthood, Theos having been knighted by Rhaegar’s Kingsguard member Prince Lewyn Martell three-turns before.

Theos was merely one of the nobleborn sons who had squired for the Kingsguard and fostered with the royal family in recent years.

His mother’s idea, back when they were searching for companions for Jaeherys.

Friendships formed by squiring together among the nobleborn sons tended to last most if not all their lives, as Rhaegar could attest from his own closest friends Ser Arthur Dayne or Lord Jon Connington, or that of his good-brother Ned with his cousin Robert, who were such friends that Robert had sought and been granted by his father and lord a betrothal between Robert’s only daughter Myrcella and Ned’s eldest son Robb.

And friends, especially among the great houses, were a valuable thing as the aforementioned betrothal bore out or Jaeherys’s own tight-bond with Benjen Stark and Tyrion Lannister which had led to both of those noble sons – albeit “spare” heirs like Jaeherys – becoming the second and third dragon riders in living memory.

In the case of Theos, Lyanna’s eldest nephew and the secondary heir of Winterfell after his father, he’d lived-trained-fought-ate-slept and all else alongside names such as Beric Dondarrion, Renly and Tommen Baratheon, Edric Arryn, Garlan and Loras Tyrell, Tommen’s cousin Jason Lannister, and his own cousins Robb, Aegon, and Daerion.

Much like how Jaeherys had grown closest to Tyrion and Benjen but remained friends with the rest of his companions, particularly Willas Tyrell, Theos fell in with Edric who was a year his senior and Rhaegar’s Aegon, the heirs of the Eyrie and the Iron Throne respectively.

Valuable friends indeed for the future Lord Paramount of the North.

None of which explained _what_ Jaeherys was doing making himself at home in the Lord’s chambers of Winterfell, which Lord Rickard had given over to the royal couple until the end of their visit, with Jaeherys to be housed in the Heir’s rooms and the various cousins all squashed together in the children’s rooms.

“Do I even _want_ to know?”  Rheagar finally asked after stripping off his cloak with a sigh and seeing that Harry was making no effort to leave or explain anytime soon.

“Parts of it probably not.”  Harry told him with a self-deprecating grin.  “But Balerion had an errand to run…”  _Read: needed to fetch the thirteen._ “So I used my magic to move myself and some small baggage here while I wait for Benjen and Tyrion to arrive with Inanna and Vaiva to excuse my own presence.  If it makes you feel better I checked to see which room was yours before I appropriated it.”

“It really doesn’t.”  Rhaegar said after a moment.  “And the creatures?”

“Gifts for the kids, of course.”  Harry’s grin turned from abashed to a full-on smirk.  “The rest of the gifts are in my bag, and should, maybe, keep Lya from ringing a peal over your head for failing,” _again_ , “to keep me from trying to turn your children into spoiled little shits.”

Rhaegar finally lost it, breaking into raucous laughter and hauling Harry to his feet for a rib-cracking back-slapping hug…which was when he noted the changes his brother had undergone in the better part of a year he’d been gone.

“What by all the gods…?”  He asked, brushing lightly at the silver-white streaks in his younger-brother’s hair.

“It’s a long story.”  Harry sighed, motioning with his head to the chair that he tweaked with a bit of magic and had expanding into a two-seat settee…that he’d have to remember to banish before he left since it had a distinctly not-medieval design.  “You’re going to need a seat…and probably a couple drinks for this one.”

…

Between spellwork and general sneakiness, when Benjen arrived on Inanna they got the cages all transferred to Harry’s temporary rooms, with Rhaegar and then Lyanna keeping him company until the dragons landed.

Winterfell had never before played host to five dragons in all its history, Rhaella staying behind at the Red Keep to put out any fires that arose and Viserys so comfortable in his role as Prince of Summerhall that he rarely left for more than a day or two, though he did spend nearly as much time flying over the valley of Summerhall and the adjoining Red Mountains as he actually did in the palace.

He was happy, but more importantly for one of Viserys’s disposition, he was _content_ , and none of his family members wished to roust him from Summerhall let alone for so little a thing as a tourney.

The castle and attached village of Winter Town were overflowing with knights and lords and ladies who had come for the tourney and a chance to win the prizes offered by Lord Stark, that man having done well in the first years of spring due to Jaeherys’s orders for new ships being mostly filled by the shipyards of White Harbor, and near-all even those fashioned in Gulltown in the Vale or Driftmark or Claw Island in the Crownlands or the Weeping Town in the Storm Lands being fashioned of strong northern timber.

A noble’s ransom of one hundred gold dragons was being offered to the champion of the joust, with twenty to the second place, and fifty each the champions of the sword, bow, and melee events.

All told, it was enough prize money for ninety families to live on comfortably for a year.

Not so rich or royal as the purses offered during the tourney of Summerhall, or the anticipated tourney to celebrate Prince Aegon’s sixteenth nameday in the coming year, but a grand sum nonetheless.

In the midst of all the accompanying chaos, it was easy enough for Harry to slip through the notice of the castle, most simply assuming that he’d arrived at the same time as Inanna and Vaiva, which as Balerion arrived with them having shown their thirteen charges to a nearby mountaintop where they would be undisturbed until they were sent for, was understandable.

Now had Harry been around without Balerion ever being spotted, _that_ would have been cause for talk.

As it was, any inconsistencies were shrugged off, though it didn’t stop the Kingsguard from sneaking in a sly comment here and there regarding the efficacy of the Winterfell household knights and men-at-arms.

Before Harry could make a nuisance of himself – mainly by handing out his furry gifts to the little and not-so-little kiddos that were his nearest and dearest – Rhaegar collared him and hauled him into a Small Council meeting, as all but their Uncle-Maester Aemon and aging Lord Lucerys Velaryon had made the journey with the King, Aemon and Lord Lucerys staying and assisting the Queen-Mother with any issues of state that arose to do with King’s Landing in their absence.

Which was fine as such things went, given that Harry knew full-well he’d gotten Rhaegar into trouble – again – with his wife over his latest gifts to their children and this time he hadn’t even handed them out yet.

Lyanna worried too much for such a free-spirited woman but he supposed mothering the future of Westeros’s royal family could do that to anyone.

Their mother hadn’t lost a worried tinge to her eyes until Viserys was knighted, and even now still fusses over them, which was normal from what he understood.  There were still times when what was “normal” for a family needed more thought than he’d like.  But some scars heal better than others, even years and years later.

“We have had more than a few requests in recent weeks,” the Hand of the King, still hale-and-hearty Lord Tywin Lannister began after both King and Prince had been seated in the pinched confines of Lord Stark’s appropriated office.  “From various knights and men-at-arms to join your company in the Stepstones.”

Harry’s green eyes flicked to his brother at the other end of the table who nodded.

“The Dragon Company _did_ lose men taking the Stepstones.”  Harry allowed.  “Are they aware that they must be released from their liege lords before taking the required vows of service to my house?”

“They are.”  Stannis told him.  “Which is another problem.  It’s not only secondary heirs and minor relations that are making this request.  The bounty your men have returned with from conquest in the Stepstones and the tales of the campaign…”

“Combined with whispers of a coming campaign,” Varys interrupted with a languid wave of his fan.

Stannis continued without taking offense, well-used to the Master-of-Whispers’ ways by now.

“Have more than one knight of renown submitting requests for temporary release to their liege lords should you prove amenable to accepting them on such a basis.”

“Who?”  Harry asked, though he had an idea based on the bitchier-than-normal look on Tywin’s face.  “Ser Jaime?”

“Yes.”  Tywin bit out.  “As well as Sers Gerold Dayne, Cristan Celtigar, Theos Stark, one Smalljon Umber, and the Lady Dacey Mormont.”

Harry turned and arched a brow at his brother.  Theos?  Really?

Rhaegar nodded with a pained look, having been hearing his Lya’s thoughts about _that_ for days ever since their nephew made the petition of Lya’s father.

“Case by case.”  Harry decided after a moment of trading glances with his brother.  “And only with approval of both their head of house and liege lord.”

He was starting to get a sinking feeling as neither issue was one that needed a meeting of the Small Council.  Rhaegar or Tywin could have easily asked him in private.  Something else was going on, and his instincts were shouting that the discomfiting air in the chamber had the same root as the tension between his brother and good-sister.

There was a plot afoot and based on the looks being shot his way he wasn’t going to like it.

He was right.

Wordlessly a scroll was handed over for his review by Lord Tywin.

It was proclamation from Rhaegar and signed by Lord Tywin as Hand and Stannis as Master of Laws.

He had no sooner skimmed the verbiage than his head snapped up and his green eyes locked on Valyrian purple.

“Could you give us the room, good Sers and Lords?”  Harry asked with an icy edge of politeness to his voice that he hung onto rather than burning with rage.

Harry had never seen _any_ of the lords of the Small Council move that fast, save for Ser Arthur who was taking the place of the Lord Commander, as the White Bull had remained in the Red Keep to guard the Queen-Mother.

For his part, Arthur didn’t leave but he _did_ lean against the door to the chamber to prevent any from entering the chamber before the two Targaryens had finished their conversation.

Brothers, each equal in esteem in the other’s heart, with heads of silver and gold, and the blood of old Valyria rich in their veins, stared in silent battle of wills at who had once been their mirror.

Age and maturity had changed them, it was true.

A throne and the stresses of it wasn’t conducive to an active life riding for miles and miles or sparring each morn and eve.

And a life spent at arms had left its mark on a once-flawless appearance.

Rhaegar had grown a short beard, Harry was as smooth-cheeked as he’d always been.

Harry’s hair had been streaked with silver-white from strain, while the toll of rule showed in the soft furrows of Rhaegar’s brow and the corners of his eyes.

The latter at least was partly due to years of laughter as well, but still.

For two princes of House Targaryen that had been as close as it was possible to be with their difference in age, they had never been so at odds and without a single word spoken to provoke it.

The sound of Harry throwing the scroll down in disgust upon the center of the table at which they sat at opposite ends was like the clang of sword on shield.

“What the _fuck_ are you thinking, Rhaegar?”  Harry demanded.  “Are you _trying_ to start a damn war?  Inviting rebellion?  Or has your wife finally sucked your last wits out through your cock?”

Okay, even Harry could admit that last one was out of line, and so he apologized before Rhaegar jumped across the table and throttled him.

Then he returned to the point.

“Passing laws to curb the predations of the Iron Born is one thing, brother.”  Harry told him, leaning forward and propping his elbows on the table, scrubbing his hands over his face.  “This?”  He asked rhetorically.  “This is asking for them to rebel.  Quellon is aging, he can barely keep his own sons and grandchildren half-civil.”  And don’t even get him started on that squid-fucking Euron Crow’s Eye.  The bastard had tried to take over Torturer’s Deep the second he thought Harry was busy elsewhere – which he had been.  Benjen had gotten more glee than seemed appropriate over burning Euron’s ships, though recent reports had Euron at least escaping the inferno and making his way to Lys.  “This proclamation is all the impetus they’ll need to unseat him, if not kill him outright, and put that arsehole Balon on the Seastone Chair.”

“I know.”  Rhaegar told him, cool as false-spring in the Riverlands.

“Oh sweet death.”  Harry groaned, allowing himself a bit of flamboyance before a pair of men that had seen him do much worse and collapsed forward against the table, burying his head under his arms.  “You _want_ them to rebel.  What’s your plan?”  He half-asked half-already-knew.  “Wait for them to form a fleet, declare their independence, and send Viserys and the weyr to burn them out?”

“Almost,” Rhaegar told him with a queer little smile on his face.  He wasn’t surprised in the least that Jaeherys had caught onto his plan with high-speed.  He’s turning into quite the strategist, his little brother.

“No.”  Harry told him a few moments later after it had sunk in.  Face as cold as his tone, Harry rose to his feet, shoving his chair back and resting his hands on the table to lean towards his brother, Arthur shifting a bit towards him in response.

Arthur had no intention of coming between the two unless necessary, but if it did he had a better chance of preventing anything… _unfortunate_ if he subdued Jaeherys before _he_ did anything irreversible.

“No.”  Harry repeated himself when Rhaegar failed to respond, all with that same queer little smile on his face.  “I won’t do it.  More, you won’t use the weyr to do it either.  If you want to bait them into murder and treason, that’s your affair as King of the Seven Kingdoms.  But you won’t use me _or_ them as your headsmen.”

“I am the King.”  Rhaegar repeated Jaeherys’s own words then added.  “I could order you.”

“You could.”  Harry nodded.  “And then I would be _forced_ to remind you that I, not you, your grace, am the commander of the weyr, and that per the proclamation regarding my status in Westeros I am no longer beholden to follow your orders as the Sovereign of my own territories.”  Harry’s voice was quiet and throbbing with internal pain, but it never faltered through all this.  Not even once.  “You may ask, as my brother.  You may request as my sworn ally.  But you may _not_ order myself or the weyr to do your dirty work.”

You could have shattered the tension with the merest flick of your finger as purple and green eyes locked for an endless moment.

And then it was.

By the sound of a slow clapping.

Harry closed his eyes, let out a long breath, and turned his head to glare at the clapping Ser Arthur who stopped a moment later then turned back to facing his brother and was half-pleased and half-pissed to see that damn infuriating little smile had been replaced with a full-blown grin and dancing eyes.

“You cock-pimples.”  He swore at them, slumping back into his seat in a relieved sprawl.  “You were _testing me_?”

“Oh yeah.”  Ser Arthur gave him a massive shit-eating grin.  “Congratulations, Harry, you passed.”

Harry flicked a vulgar gesture at the far-too-smug Kingsguard as his brother – who’d started laughing in hysterical glee at Harry’s choice of epithet – calmed back down and wiped away a tear from his eye.

“Who knew?”

He blinked as that sobered the pair right down.

Rhaegar just gave a tilt of his head to indicate Ser Arthur…and that was it.

“No fucking wonder Lya’s pissed at you.”  Harry rolled his expressive green eyes.  “She thought you’d been switched with your evil twin for however long you’ve been running this plot of yours.”  Then he frowned, as he caught that there was more behind the disquiet than just Lyanna’s temper.  “Who _else_ knew about the proposed proclamation?”

“The Small Council.”  Rhaegar told him, rubbing soothing circles over his temples in an attempt to release a bit of the tension that’d been riding him for turn after turn as he waited for his brother to return.  “Kingsguard and Mother, that’s it.”

Harry ached a brow at that, reluctantly impressed that they’d managed to keep it away from the servants and the royal children, both of whom tended to know much more than they should at any given time.

“I’m guessing from the graveside expressions that not everyone was against your mad, idiotic, murderous proposal.”

That got him a deadpan _look_ from his brother and an agreeing grunt from Arthur.

“Fantastic.”  Harry snorted.  “Who’re hoping for war with the Ironborn?  Lord Tywin I would think but who else?”

“Lord Velaryon.”  Rhaegar sighed.  “The rest are cautiously neutral or outright against it like Lyanna and our Uncle-Maester.”

“Mother?”

“Neutral as always when it comes to her darling baby boys.”  Ser Arthur reported with a bit of a coo directed at said “baby boys.”  “She’d look the other way if Rhaegar committed outright murder let alone simply inciting the Ironborn – which isn’t even that hard to do.”

“Lord Velaryon is old enough now and Monford,” Lucerys’s only legitimate son and heir.  “Is young enough that a reshuffling that ended with Lucerys off the Council won’t draw attention.  Lord Tywin is a concern.”  Rhaegar confided.  “Since _someone_ I know decided to strike out on his own and take both himself and the next two-best candidates for Hand with him.”

“Benjen would have been an awful hand.”  Harry gave a half-hearted protest at the implied accusation.  “Or at least would have hated his life.”

“Point stands.”  On this Rhaegar refused to budge.  “You and Tyrion are the best at the game of our generation and you left to start your own territory outside of Westeros.”

Harry went through a mental list of everyone he knew that would be even half-suitable for the post.  Jon Connington came ready to mind but had been the King’s Justice since Rhaegar took the throne…and was half in love with Rhaegar despite both of them being well married with children, which made him less than ideal.  Ser Arthur _could_ fill the position but was expected to step forward as Lord Commander of the Kingsguard within the next few years as Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the “White Bull” was of advanced age for a knight at sixty-nine years old.  With himself and Tyrion out of the Westerosi game that didn’t leave much…

A thought occurred to him in the midst of mental-grousing over the troubles appointing a woman to any post but Master/Mistress of Whispers would cause.

Women could serve as _advisors_ to the Small Council as both the current Queens had for years but being installed as a member in truth was a different thing that would prick at more than one lord’s idea of how things were done.

“Willas Tyrell.”  Harry told his brother, hoping he took his advice.  “He’s my next-closest friend from squiring beyond Benjen and Tyrion.  Smarter than his father to be sure and trained at the knee of the “Queen of Thorns” to rule Highgarden from the cradle given the disappointments Lady Olenna faced in her own children.  Short of making Lady _Olenna_ your hand, he’s your next bet…but not immediately.”

Rhaegar saw the path Jaeherys had laid out for him.

“Lucerys _retired_ from the Council would allow me to move Ardwell to Master of Ships.  Adding Heir Tyrell as the Master of Coin will allow him to learn much about the Council and one of the most difficult jobs of rule: balancing the ledgers.”

Harry nodded with a slight smile then looked over towards Arthur.

“Want to let them in now so we can assure them that no form of regicide has taken place in their absence?”

“My little brother the King of the Stepstones.”  Rhaegar gave him a bemused smile.  “I still remember when you were a tiny little scrunched-face imp and now a blooded conquering warrior.”

“The Known World is only big enough for one dragon-riding Targaryen King.”  Harry joked back.  “I’ll be the Sovereign Prince of Valyria instead.”

 


	16. Blood

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Fifteen: Blood**

While Ser Arthur sent a servant to recall the Small Council to the Lord’s office Harry returned to his temporary quarters to retrieve a few things.

They weren’t the gifts he’d _intended_ to start with or to whom, but there was no sense in waiting when three of the recipients were in one place, though depending on how one looked at it, you could say that there were five other recipients in Winterfell but as the gifts weren’t necessarily for the Kingsguard themselves but for their post, Harry was giving them to his brother instead.

From another – more cynical perspective…say Tyrion’s or Oberyn’s – some of Harry’s openhandedness with gift-giving to the land he’d left behind him was an appeasement to keep them happy and not attempting to take his deeds for their own.

What you called it didn’t really matter to Harry, just that his gifts were appreciated as he appreciated or loved those he gave to.

Though in the case of Lord Tywin, it was more along the lines of a semi-blatant bribe to keep him content at forgetting Tyrion existed when they weren’t in the same room.

Of all those who had followed Harry away from certainty of a livelihood in their fathers’ or brothers’ houses, it was Tyrion who had been given a writ of release with the utmost haste.  Tywin had, over the years, come to realize that Tyrion had a cunning mind for the great game.  That did _not_ in turn mean there had been any sort of reconciliation between the two.  Indeed, if anything Tywin resented his younger son all the more for his cunning mind as his pride and joy had proven over and over again that outside of a sparring ring, the jousting lists, or in battle Jaime couldn’t be fucked to bother.

Curious glances from all around the table were cast at the bundle Harry had returned with, but they were left in anxious curiosity until Rhaegar had finished hashing out the _real_ updates to the laws regarding the issues most prominent with the Ironborn – mainly that of their reaving and raping.

When the Council had at last finished its business – for the day at least – Harry asked Stannis and Tywin to stay and for Ser Arthur to call in the Kingsguard in the hall.  With Winterfell being her home, Queen Lyanna hadn’t any need for more than a single guard for herself and the children, especially as she spent most of her time either with said children and her nieces and nephews, or with the other noble ladies present for the tourney in Lady Catelyn’s solar, Brandon’s wife having taken over as Lady of Winterfell the same day her husband brought her home, the late Lady Lyarra having passed some years before.  As it was, Harry would give Lewyn his “present-non-present” when he launched his invasion of the Lady’s solar to give out what he _hoped_ would be balms against said-ladies putting a price on his head over his presents to their children.

Varys, as was his way, wasn’t _asked_ to stay but unless Harry wanted to be rude and ask him to leave wasn’t about to be moved from his seat at the table until his own interest was satisfied regarding what he _thought_ likely was in the bundle on the table given the songs that had been sung from Pentos.

Once the door was shut, Harry stood without further ado and unrolled the large piece of cloth, revealing the Blackfyre banner that Illyrio had likewise kept certain relics of House Targaryen wrapped within, causing Rhaegar to rise to his feet at what had been kept _within_ said banner to be revealed, an action echoed by both Lord Tywin and Ser Stannis, the knights of the Kingsguard – save Ser Arthur – unconsciously taking a step forward as well.

Arthur after all was one of the few who’d _known_ and not made assumptions regarding where Prince Jaeherys had been during the past year.

And there was only one thing he could think of, of that particular length and bulk that would have the Prince’s strong arms showing strain by carrying it across Winterfell to the chamber where the Council was meeting.

For wrapped inside the Blackfyre banner, Harry had sorted out nine swords and a single dagger of Valyrian steel, along with the crown and pendant of Daena the Defiant.

“Is that…?”  Wide-eyed and showing more expression than Harry honestly thought Lord Tywin was capable of, the Lord Paramount of the Westerlands watched as Harry set out each sword side by side and arranging them as such that the one of _particular_ interest to the Lord of Casterly Rock was before him, Tywin lifting his hand to hover just over the infamous lion-and-ruby hilt of Brightroar, the once-lost ancestral Valyrian steel sword of House Lannister.

Harry nodded, with a tilt of his head.  “A gift to the father of my _closest_ of friends and companions.”

Tywin took that barb with good-humor considering what Harry had chosen to sweeten it with.  Eager hands snatched up the greatsword, eyes eating up the length of rippling steel.

“Blackfyre, Dark Sister, and relics and a banner of House Blackfyre.”  Rhaegar gave a little laugh then studied his brother with a half-smile tugging at his mouth.  “What _did_ you get into when you were gone?”

“Nothing likely to start a war.”  Harry told him, and even found it true from a certain perspective.  “Blackfyre I would think would be _quite_ the gift of knighthood for my eldest nephew while Dark Sister should suit your own style of swordplay, brother.”

Rhaegar could easily agree with that, given that he had never been one for the massive greatswords some men and knights favored.  Aegon on the other hand had been trained by Ned Stark from a young age and none could deny that the middle Stark brother of his generation was one of the best greatsword wielders in Westeros.  Rhaegar could do naught but smile as he imagined the excitement on Aegon’s face when he was presented with the ancestral sword of House Targaryen that had been thought truly gone after the death of the last Blackfyre of the male line.

Which made Rhaegar question just _how_ he’d found it, but that was a line of inquiry that could wait until they once more were without an audience.

The rest of the armaments presented were not so easily attributed to a recipient, a situation handled in all due course.

Handing off the dagger to Stannis, smiling at his cousin’s stiff thanks, the taciturn man as lost as ever in social situations, Harry turned his giftings and the attention to the knights – all save Arthur who had no need of a new sword so long as he was the finest swordsman of House Dayne and worthy of wielding Dawn.

“Sers.”  He held out his hands, sweeping them over the proffered swords.  “It seems the Kingsguard has received an improvement in armament.”

…

Lyanna was appeased by the silks and lace Harry had brought her from Lys via the Pentos markets, but perhaps only because her ire with her plotting-jackass-of-a-husband was so great.  Rhaegar had allowed her to think the worst things of him for weeks and weeks.  Though one would never know that the royal couple was at odds, as Lyanna after over fifteen years of marriage knew well how to keep a calm mask in public no matter how _bloody infuriating_ her husband and King could be.

Funny enough, it was the husband that got in trouble with her more often than the King.

The King at least tended to operate on tenets of logical thought and public good.

The man did no such thing, but the same could be said of all men.

His incursion into the Lady’s solar had allowed those great ladies of his acquaintance to both receive his gifts and show them off without actually having to do anything so gauche as other than his mother, all of said ladies were able to make the tourney.

Fine wools from Norvos were given to Lady Catelyn and Lady Selyse, his cousin Steffon’s wife Lady Cassana a rich green velvet from the same as all three ladies preferred.  Thank Merlin for Tyrion and his encyclopedic knowledge of people’s preferences.  That same knowledge netted him pleased smiles from Ladies Ashara and Cersei over their Lyseni silks that were shot through with a secondary color for a most pleasing effect.  And knowing his nieces and young cousins and so on, had purchased fine Lyseni lace for all the young ladies which were promptly turned over to their mothers to handle rather than risk them being damaged or going missing by being given to the young ladies in question.

The she-wolves and lioness appeased with his offerings – and Selyse but as he didn’t care for her it was more for Stannis’s pride that he gave her gifts as he did with Cersei or Ashara – he went off for the more pleasing part of his day: turning over the befurred creatures in his possession to their new young companions.

Harry imagined that between the gifts and the tourney, even Cersei will be distracted enough to give him time to hie himself back to Bloodstone before she could take him over the coals for Myrcella’s kitten, and the squealing hugs that the younger ones gave him on receiving their gifts more than made up for any glares he received in the interim.

…

A knock on the door to his temporary quarters was the only warning he had before the door was opening, the invader leading with:

“How in the seven _hells_ did you find a dozen direwolf pups?”  Ned Stark demanded of his younger friend.

He would never be as close to Jaeherys Targaryen as he was Harry’s cousin Robert, but he was still a genial companion who knew when to talk and when to listen and never shied away from a duel or to watch over Ned’s children when he wished to take his Lady Ashara aside for a private dinner.  It wasn’t strictly necessary given the number of servants in the Red Keep, but it made both of them _feel_ better when the children were in the hands of someone who, well, could handle Arya who was as wild at eight years old as her aunt Lyanna had ever been.  And that was just _one_ of their children.

Ned came to an abrupt stop as he got a clear view of the room and realized that Harry hadn’t _just_ found a dozen direwolf pups plus the little black pup that his brother was calling “Snuffles” for some harebrained reason.

Benjen had always been a bit off and becoming one of the Three Terrors with Harry and the Imp hadn’t helped matters.

There were two full-grown direwolf bitches laying on the rug before the low-burning fireplace in what was usually his brother Brandon’s rooms but had been given over to Prince Jaeherys who as a man grown and knighted outranked his nephew until Prince Aegon took up the full mantle of Prince of Dragonstone…though from what whispers were about, that might have changed and Harry become a sovereign in his own right which would make him outrank his nephew until Aegon mounted the Iron Throne upon Rhaegar’s death.

“A simple story involving a poacher, the Pentos markets, and a great deal of care to ensure their safe arrival.”  Harry answered the question hanging between them.  He watched with amused eyes as the larger bitch, an all-black to match her pup that he’d given to Benjen, wandered over to Ned as he sat at the small table and helped himself to a goblet of wine, parking herself at his feet and refusing to budge.  “Congratulations, Ned.”  Harry smirked, laughing at his exasperation.  “It’s a girl.”

“And the other?”

“Who knows?”  Harry shrugged.  “Direwolves are smarter than any dog or horse.  She’ll choose her familiar in time or she won’t either way your brother has agreed to watch over her.”

“Benjen?”

Harry shook his head.  “Brandon.  I think he has an idea regarding breeding so that House Stark is never without its sigil animal again.”

“He would.”  Ned just gave a put-upon sigh for the idiocy of his brothers.  “Speaking of Brandon, Petyr Baelish was recently spotted in King’s Landing but was smuggled out of the city before Ser Addam with his Gold Cloaks could arrest him.  Varys’s little birds have him heading for Bloodstone.”

“He can head there all he likes.”  Harry had his patented _very-not-impressed_ look on his face.  “But he’ll find it much less hospitable for procurers and slave-holders than it used to be.”

“And if he returns to Essos?”

“Then he’s still not our problem outside of silly Lysa’s muttering and complaints to her sister over how _ill-used_ she’s been.”

…

Of all the handing out of small (and not so small) creatures to his nieces and nephews (his young Baratheon cousins Tommen, Jon, and Eddard were all given either Valyrian steel daggers for the older pair or a goldenwood bow for the youngest) two stuck out the most.

Not because of the creatures or because of which children it was who were given them, but because of the reactions of both parties to the other.

One of the easier to locate children was Stannis’s daughter Shireen.

Harry had spent quite a bit of time over the last few years once he’d heard of her affliction tinkering with different salves and healing pastes that he put together with ingredients native to his new world as well as infusing the concoctions with magic.  Loath to get her hopes up, for the sweet child understood all-too-well thanks to the cruelty of humans the significance of her greyscale scarring, Harry had instead corresponded with the Citadel, sending them different treatments for them to test on the unfortunate souls that flood into the Citadel searching for a cure to the disease.  Some had worked to at least relieve the discomfort caused by the dead patches of skin, which the young lady had received via them being slipped in through the servants at Storm’s End – usually thanks to his mother’s ingenuity and friendship with Lady Cassana.

His newest recipe had been vetted and approved by the Citadel and had “magically” replaced her current salve a bit of slight-of-hand using an enchanted jar that Benjen had helped him fashion after sneaking things in and out of Storm’s End became too onerous and Rhaella focused more on her partnership with Zareen than visiting her cousin Steffon and his family.

Having reached her seventh nameday, Shireen had been taken under the collective wings of her cousin Myrcella when at Storm’s End who was a year her elder, and Harry’s niece Daenerys, three years older when at the Red Keep or elsewhere as her father Stannis followed the King as a member of the Small Council.  Which made finding all three of them plus the two eight-year-olds Asha (daughter of Brandon and Catelyn) and Arya who both Shireen and Daenerys knew well as her father was Ned Stark the Red Keep master-at-arms and her mother Ashara served her good-sister Lyanna as a lady in waiting.  The trio of Shireen, Daenerys, and Arya had Harry happier than ever that he wouldn’t be living in his brother’s household when they all were flowered.

If surviving Daerion’s teenaged years didn’t wear on the king’s household, surviving those three coming of age very well could and Harry along with their other uncles Tyrion and Benjen were all quite ecstatic to be well out of _that_ maelstrom of hormones and tempers.

Shireen had watched with an air of happiness for her friends as they each laughed and giggled over their gifts of direwolves in the cases of Arya, Asha, and Daenerys, and black-furred kitten for Myrcella, but also one of resignation.  Her mother had never allowed her pets or companions before…well, before.  She was still trying to come to grips with having friends her age, afraid that perhaps it was all some sort of fever-dream that she would wake from, and when not afraid her happiness would be taken away she struggled with knowing how to behave with the other children.  Even the smallfolk children had never been much around her before and when they were they weren’t… _kind_ let alone friendly.

Myrcella had been her only companion for many years and even then Shireen’s good-aunt Cersei had always been disapproving.

Between the twin forces of Cersei’s disapproval and Selyse’s shame, their friendship had never really sprouted strong roots though they used to live in the same castle.

It wasn’t until Shireen was brought to court that that had changed and while Shireen was smart enough to know that her Aunt Cersei did not approve of her befriending Myrcella anymore than she previously had, she also was wise enough in the ways of politics to not snub a child – no matter how ugly or disfigured in her eyes – who was in the throes of befriending the beloved second-princess of House Targaryen.

“Why are you hiding over here, little fawn?”  Harry crouched down at her side in the makeshift “little-ladies solar” where a pair of Septas (the Stark children’s and the one from Storm’s End) watched over their charges.  The other girls were busy getting acquainted with both their own and each other’s new familiars, though he was glad he’d had instructions and strictures for care given to the various stewards and kennel masters.  Excited children, in his experience, rarely took in important information no matter how much they protest otherwise.  At least his instructions that they were to be friends and companions to the children seemed to have made an impact, and the three girls – Rhaenys being elsewhere with her cousin Sansa, the fourteen year old young ladies likely giggling over the squires and knights with the other young ladies their age – were each trying out names for their new friends and allowing the pups and kitten to cuddle or meander or explore at their own volition.  “Don’t you want your gift I brought you from Pentos?”

“Mama says that we shouldn’t presume.”  Shireen said in her sweet, soft voice.  “Since you’re only a distant relative, it can’t be expected that you will remember us.”

 _Mama_ , Harry thought to himself derisively.  _Is a bloody twit_.

Worse, she was a bitch with it.

At least Cersei, as much of a vicious harpy she could be from what Harry’d seen of her at court over the years, had half a brain to go with it.

When she wasn’t soaking said brain in wine to tolerate her husband anyway.

Perhaps he could drop a suggestion in Stannis’s ear that Lady Selyse’s _delicate_ constitution would be better served residing with her family at Brightwater Keep in the Reach.  It was worth a try.  The only sticking point was whether it would offend his propriety…Harry would mention it to Lyanna, who would put Rhaella on the case and filter it through Stannis’s mother Lady Cassana.

Hardly the most efficient method, but it was the one with the highest chance of success, and for the love of his asocial cousin and his darling of a daughter Harry would see it through.

“Presume all you like, little fawn.  You have the blood of House Targaryen in your veins.  Family.”  Harry chucked her under her chin, the little girl ducking her head with a blush.  “Now, would you like to meet her?  I’m afraid she’ll be most upset with me if I don’t introduce her soon.”

Shireen brightened right up, hopping up from her seat towards the make of the room and clasping Harry’s offered hand, gasping when she reached the side of her friends/cousin and saw the regal creature staring down at all of them from the top of the carriers Harry had used for the pups and kitten.

“She’s a golden huntress from Sarnor.”  Harry explained, even as said huntress leapt down and came to sit with her tail wrapped elegantly around her paws as she studied her human.

She seemed an acceptable creature, strong if the scarring on her face was any sign.

Much more tolerable than the male that always smelled of dragon and direwolf.

The one that found her in the market seemed tolerable, but not as acceptable as _her_ girl would be.

“Much like the direwolf pups, she’s no ordinary cat.”  Harry cautioned Shireen, even as the girl knelt and brushed one hand with exquisite gentleness just between the ears of the huntress.  “She’ll be the size of a middling dog when adult and won’t tolerate colder weather without being acclimated to it.”

“She’s brilliant, cousin Jaeherys.”  Shireen beamed up at him even as the huntress pounced at last, throwing herself into Shireen’s arms and laying claim to her before the kitten or pups could get any _ideas_ about the huntress’s girl.  “Thank you!  Thank you so very much!  I’ll take care of her, I promise!”

Harry smiled down at her.  “I’m sure you will, little fawn.  Of that I hadn’t any doubts at all.”

…

Finding his eldest nephew wasn’t nearly as easily accomplished as locating the other children had been.

With the tourney beginning the next day, one would think Aegon would be practicing or resting, but no, the moody fifteen-year-old crown prince was nowhere to be found and had Harry seriously considering checking the local brothels when Theos, already bonded and bonding with his black and white male pup he’d dubbed “Night” told him to try the godswood first.

Harry had never been a religious man or a man of faith.

A trait that hadn’t changed with his second life.

And made him much more a minority than he had been as Harry Potter, who only believed in magic, as a Prince who subscribed to no faith and gave worship to no gods as the High Septon had often lamented since his reaching his manhood and refraining from further attendance with the rest of House Targaryen at the Great Sept of Baelor on holy days.

Other than himself, the only man he knew that truly believed in nothing was Sandor Clegane, one of his finest warriors in the Dragon Company who’d been made a captain after the taking of Bloodstone.

Even Benjen believed in the old gods to an extent.

For Harry, the only things approaching _belief_ in his life were death and magic.

So, it wasn’t the first time a member of his family or the Kingsguard or a friend or what have you had had to remind him that _others_ might be found in such places as godswoods and septs and temples.

He’d barely made it to the edge of the Winterfell godswood when the pup in his hands, an albino that with its white coat and red eyes who seemed _meant_ somehow for Aegon, struggled and flailed to be put down, finally resorting to nipping at his hands until he dropped him in reflex, the white direwolf pup tumbling to the ground only to leap up onto his feet and go darting off in the direction of the heart-tree.

It seemed the pup, not unlike a dragon would, sensed his familiar near.

The sound of laughter drew Harry the rest of the way to the heart-tree, where Aegon had been kneeling – presumably in prayer though given his temperament brooding was just as likely – before being set upon by a most ferocious foe: a direwolf pup intent on befriending him.

“He’s a gift, nephew-mine.”  Harry told him as Aegon looked up at the soft sound of his footfalls on the spring grass.

Lifting the pup in his arms, Aegon sprang up onto his feet and clasped his uncle in a strong hug that told the tale of a young man nearly grown, the pup cradled with unerring firm-gentleness in the crook of his off-arm.

“Uncle Harry.”  Aegon flashed a bright grin that belied the child of all Rhaegar’s offspring – for all that he had the dark hair of his mother – who had taken the most after Rhaegar in temperament.  Aegon was a curious mix of Targaryen ferocity and deep-nature with the wild honor of his Stark maternal line.  The scion of eight thousand years of the Kings of Winter and the Conqueror who had forced them to kneel in both submission and alliance, raised back up as the Lords of the North.  “You’ve been missed.”

Harry had high hopes for all of his brother’s children but couldn’t deny a certain partiality for both Aegon who took so after his beloved brother in temperament and little Daenerys who had all her mother’s fire melded to her father’s good heart.

Not that he showed it in word or deed but then the depths of a man’s heart were for him alone to know…or for their bonded dragon to tease them over.

It was as much for those children who had wormed their way into his heart with gummy smiles and grasping little fists who had wrapped their fingers around his heart and never let go that Harry was as determined as he was to make the world a better place than he’d found it.  He didn’t want his nieces to grow and bring children into a place where they might be sold for bed-slaves if stolen away from their mother’s arms.  Nor to face the risk of losing his nephews every time a lord or hedge knight became fractious or a pirate saw the triple-headed dragon as a gamble worth taking.

He needed his campaign for himself, yes.

For what was a weapon but a tool?

And what good was a tool that wasn’t used.

He’d been forged in the crucible of war and trauma into the finest weapon the wizarding world had ever produced.

In the wake of having someone ready to point him at a target, he’d taken up one for himself and aimed it at the predations of slavery.

He wasn’t so foolish as to think that it was a war that would be won in his lifetime or even at all.  What he remembered of human trafficking and racism in his first life, he knew better than to think one man, even a Prince, could snuff out the evils of men preying upon other men.  But he could try.

That it kept him from going bat-shit crazy in boredom was a handy side-benefit but for boredom alone Harry never would have taken the Stepstones, let alone sunk his wards and claim onto Valyria.

If it took every last drop of his blood, he would protect Rhaegar’s children as well as he could, the same for those of Viserys – if his little brother ever chose a husband, wife, or some combination thereof.

Even if that meant sweeping across Essos to keep the Free Cities from getting _designs_ on the dragons of House Targaryen, then that was what he’d do, and pursue his own cause in the process.

“Well, you need someone around who’s not afraid to knock you on your peachy arse.”  Harry ruffled Aegon’s riotous black curls that were still close-cropped as befit a young man not yet either knight or a man grown.  “Or has Daerion finally grown enough to give his big brother a run for his gold?  Last I checked your cousins still weren’t up for the challenge.”

The Princes Royal, much like Rhaegar, Jaeherys, and Viserys before them were trained by the Kingsguard…which was a bit problematic at times when the vows they’d taken to protect the royal family clashed with the necessary roughness of learning the lance, sword, spear, or other contact weapons.  As a Prince himself, Lewyn was one of the few who wasn’t afraid to knock them on their arses, and Ser Arthur due to his close friendship with Rhaegar felt as if the children were his own nieces and nephews rather than simply his charges.  But other than those two, the boys only had each other and Ned Stark to practice against.

And as with anything militant, one learned almost more from failures as they did from successes.

“He’s twelve.”  Aegon said in a dead-pan tone.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Aegon rolled his expressive purple eyes, muttering down at the watching and patient direwolf pup.

“Well, it didn’t.”  Harry pointed out with a little snicker.  “Like your present?”

“Mmm,” Aegon nodded, rubbing one calloused finger lightly down the pure-white fur.  “He’d be damn hard to spot in the snow.  Seems like it’d be an advantage beyond the Wall.”

“A rare case of a recessive trait being a boon rather than a deficit.”  Harry agreed.  “Not unlike the Targaryen affinity for magic.”

“I’ve kept up on my meditation.”  Aegon responded immediately, eyes darting back up to his uncle’s smooth face.  “Just like you taught me.  When do you think…”

Harry chuckled lightly.

“So impatient.”  He tsked, throwing one arm around Aegon’s ever-broadening shoulders.  “You just got a companion.  Consider your little friend there a test.  Take excellent care of him, fulfill your duties to him and not pass them off on the kennel master or the servants, and I’ll work more on your mother.”

“She still says I can’t attempt it until I’m older.”  Aegon complained.  “I’m fifteen namedays next month.  Uncle Viserys…”

“My brother.”  Harry cut off that line of complaint.  “Was a different case than you.  Viserys was never meant for a throne or other responsibilities that you are.  He’s not a martially inclined man either.  He’s more like your father, willing to sing songs all day and bury himself in dusty old tomes when he’s not flying through the skies with Syrexian.  I love both of my brothers dearly but they are different men than you or I.  And I was in my twenties when I found the dragon eggs and Balerion hatched for me.  Your parents have decided, with advice from myself and the other riders, to disallow anyone not of-age from attempting a dragon.”

“You’re the weyr commander.”  Aegon wasn’t going to give up that easily, even though he knew the battle wasn’t one he was going to win.  He still needed to fight it, even if just to comfort himself in that he’d tried.  It didn’t make his pup – Ghost, he thought, for how he’d disappear into the snows – any less wonderful.  But even the best direwolf wasn’t a dragon.  And Aegon had dragons in his blood.  “You could overrule them.”

“Not if I don’t want to go deaf I won’t.”  Harry told him with a wry smirk, Aegon having to duck his head to hide a grin at the reference to his mother’s ability to out-argue even Lord Tywin when she was in a mood.  “There’s only two ways for you to argue your case to your parents: wait a year and a turn or gain your knighthood and thereby become a man that way.”

“There’s no battles to be fought in Westeros.”  Aegon shook his head, dismissing that idea.  He knew without asking that there was no way in the seven hells that his Uncle Jaeherys would take him with on his next campaign.  “Unless I want to go ranging beyond the Wall.”

“You don’t say?”  Harry raised his brows in mock-shock.  “It’s times like this where I’m reminded that you’re just as much my nephew as you are my brother’s son.”

“How do you mean?”

“Your ability to overlook the obvious even when it’s staring you plain in the face.”  Harry snorted a laugh, then pointed at the masses of tents and pavilions that were littering the fields of Winterfell.  “ _Open_ battle is not the only way to earn your spurs, dragon-boy.”

…

 


	17. Tilt

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

**Chapter Sixteen: Tilt**

It was Ser Jaime Lannister who asked the question at banquet that night, as the highest nobles of Westeros – and a few from abroad, such as a deposed Prince from the Summer Isles – gathered in Winterfell’s Great Hall for a feast to celebrate the beginning of the tournament and Ser Theos’s reaching manhood and knighting.

Theos only the second Stark in recent memory to be officially knight, years after that of his Uncle Benjen.

The reasoning was simple: prior to Rhaegar’s ascent to the Iron Throne, knighthood was a religious office not a martial one though the two were entwined.

And as the Iron Islands, North, and Dorne (in that order) tended to have less fellowship with the Faith of the Seven, they in turn had less knights though that wasn’t to say their warriors weren’t as honorable or fierce.

They just didn’t receive similar _recognition_ in the southron kingdoms of Westeros as knighted warriors from Westeros did, lacked the same prestige that came with being knighted.

Rhaegar, however, was not a strict member of the Faith of the Seven, being a bit of a throw-back to Old Valyria.

Knighted by Ser Barristan Selmy himself, Rhaegar used an alternative wording of the knighthood vows than those used prior to him, and the ceremony while still formal, reverent, and meaningful, did not take place before the statue of the Warrior in the Great Sept of Baelor, but on the steps of the Red Keep for all the smallfolk and visitors of King’s Landing to witness.

As with most things practiced by a beloved King, _his_ notion of knighthood quickly became the fashion, especially since it allowed followers of gods other than the Seven to be sworn into knighthood.

As such, Lord Rickard – who could be a frugal man – was throwing the tourney in Ser Theos’s honor, as his son Benjen had been honored alongside Prince Jaeherys at a tourney at King’s Landing held by his brother the King.

“Will you be joining us in the lists or the sword ring, your grace?”  Ser Jaime asked with undisguised eagerness.  Say what you liked about Jaime Lannister – and many often did – but he enjoyed a good scrap, which was what a bout against Prince Jaeherys Targaryen promised.

Late spring through Summer were tourney season – unless there was a war on – and Jaeherys was still the undefeated swordsman of Westeros, though he notably – and aggravatingly for those who wished to face him – declined to joust.

“Not anymore I’m afraid, Ser Jaime.”  Harry nodded to the blond – and so-oh-pretty – heir of Casterly Rock.  If only he wasn’t Tyrion’s brother…  “As my brother,” he sent a mock-scowl at the grinning face of Rhaegar who was one breath away from laughing at him.  “Has taken _far_ too much pleasure in reminding me: I am a sovereign now.  I’m afraid the tilt is out of question and the sword not advisable.”

“See, Benjen.”  Tyrion leaned forward from where he was seated between his brother Jaime and Jaime’s son Jason.  The lovely Sansa Stark was on Jason’s other side, as befit her station both as a high-ranking lady and Jason’s betrothed.  “I told you he could be taught if we beat it into his head enough!”

The nearby lords, knights, and ladies all laughed at that, even his father Tywin cracking a grimace-like smile.

Prince Jaeherys’s intransience was becoming legend among the highborn since as the Commander of the Weyr, he was the ultimate authority for both the Weyr and those who applied to attempt a dragon egg.  The King had passed laws regarding the requirements for attempting an egg and what comes after, but in the end all knew it was Jaeherys who barred the way and Prince Viserys who served as gatekeeper.  None had a chance without getting at least two of the three Targaryen brothers on-side, unless they could convince Jaeherys…which had yet to happen and not _just_ because in the year or so since the revelation of the dragon rebirth, Harry had spent most of it either in the Stepstones or Valyria.

“That is disappointing news.”  Ser Jaime told him with real regret.  Though he understood.  As it was, his father had banned Jaime from participating in tourneys until Jason had been born and reached his first year, with him still being disapproving until his second-son Titus had done the same.  Succession and the security of it was _all_ to most lords, let alone a King – or as had been disseminated through servant’s gossip and official proclamation which had occurred and gone out by raven at the start of the feast – or a Sovereign Prince.  “I had hoped to see if I might unseat you from your title of Sword Champion.”

Unlike the joust, where one needed to be a knight to compete – though notably, both Barristan Selmy and Lyanna Stark had found that often simply _appearing_ to be a knight was enough – the sword and archery rings as well as the melee were open to all.

However, as champion, Harry would have only been required to compete in the semi-finals and onward, not the elimination rounds.

“Perhaps you might have a chance yet, Ser Jaime.”  Harry told him with a half-smile, even as Rhaegar and Tyrion narrowed their gazes at him in unified suspicion.

“How do you mean, your grace?”

“My nephew,” Harry tilted his head to indicate Aegon who was seated with his cousins and various companions of high birth all serving their last bit of time as squires or newly knighted.  “Has spoken with his father and received permission to participate in the sword.  I _may_ have promised him a chance to duel me to either ten-strikes or first-blood if he arises as the Winterfell champion.”  Harry quirked a brow at the now-eager blond.  “An offer I would extend to other _trusted_ knights of the realm such as yourself, Ser Jaime.”

In other words, those he could count on _not_ to try and hack off his head or give him a lethal wound under the cover of a simple duel.

…

 _“Is it just me?”_ Balerion commented that night via their bond as he rested in the godswood while Harry was reviewing the parchments Tyrion had dumped on him – likely in retribution for agreeing to consider dueling whoever arose as the champion of the sword.  “ _Or have you been getting scolded more in the last few days than in the time sense I’ve hatched?”_

 _“You’re not imagining it.”_ Harry answered, his tone dry even in their bond as he looked over what was – he thought unless he’d lost all sense the way Tyrion’s _look_ (along with that of his brother, good-sister, and quite a few random nobles) earlier had implied – suggestions to fill Harry’s Small Council.  _“Everyone is on edge right now with my becoming a sovereign in my own right whilst still being the younger brother of the King.  Tyrion especially is overrun with work to get something like a functioning system of governance in place before we begin the Essos campaign.”_

Balerion understood as much from Vaiva, that still didn’t mean he _appreciated_ her human dumping parchment after parchment on his Harry’s temporary desk.  Listening to Harry’s thoughts, he knew they were everything from candidates for a Small Council, to drafts of coinage for the new Valyrian currency – as such was apparently a human custom when founding an independent state – to the lists of knights, free riders, and men-at-arms who wished to join in Harry’s coming campaign.  There were also lists of craftspeople and smallfolk who wanted to move to the Stepstones now that three of the main islands had been settled, with a few brave souls who were interested in the nice pay that came along with being a herdsman on the islands used for grazing the dragons’ food-herds.  Even requests from septons, priests, and priestesses to found temples or septs or other places of worship.

All of which Balerion’s Harry had to review, adjust, and/or approve.

It was no wonder he’d been so _eager_ to venture to Valyria within the first few turns after taking the Stepstones if this was what was required of a sitting sovereign.

Even with a Hand – or presumed Hand since Harry hadn’t done any of the normal human rituals for that sort of thing – as good at his job as Vaiva’s Tyrion.

Still, if nothing else, both Balerion and Harry knew that finalizing the selections of his Small Council would take at least _some_ of the workload off of Tyrion, given that it can be filtered through the various Masters who sat on the Small Council before being brought to either the Hand or in the case of Harry the Sovereign Prince.

 _“They’ve never known what to do with you, I don’t know why they’re being odd now.”_ Balerion pointed out.

 _“Being the odd, wild younger brother of a king is one thing, Balerion.”_ Harry sighed, scrubbing his hands over his cheeks and eyes for a moment before giving up the ghost and rising to get ready for bed.  _“Being the odd, wild, and_ powerful _younger brother of a king who hatches dragons with one hand and conquers lands with the other is a different thing entirely.  Eventually they’ll relax when they realize my eyes are fixed firmly upon the East and have no intention of_ ever _getting sucked into their damned game of thrones and great lords.”_

…

The first day of a tourney always began with the presentation/parade of the knight who would be participating in the joust, an event which everyone attended if they could, and made an excellent moment for Harry’s latest version of knocking the world off its axis until it could right itself.

With it being the first tourney hosted in the North in an age and the large purses on offer, the attendance was high, higher than most tourneys unless they were hosted by the royal family…which in a way this one was given that the Starks of Winterfell were the good-family of the sitting King.  Otherwise a tourney would have to have a rather exceptional purse to draw more than fifty or so knights to compete in the joust.  Current count had an anticipated hundred or more all battling for the champion’s purse and that was before one took into account all the others – knights or otherwise – competing for the melee, sword, and archery purses, some in addition to competing at the joust.

An excellent showing indeed.

As well as a most excellent platform for the introduction of the Valyrian Weyr.

Harry knew that he couldn’t remain the commander of the Summerhall weyr as the sovereign of another country.  The problem became _who_ should become commander in his stead, as none of the current four dragonriders of his family: his mother Rhaella, brothers Rhaegar and Viserys, and good-sister Lyanna; had the appropriate temperament for playing peace-maker between both dragons and riders.  Well, Rhaegar probably _could_ , but he had more than enough on his plate as King of Westeros.

Thanks to one of the dragons anticipating bonding their riders after Harry _finally_ showed them off to the public, he thought he had a solution to that problem however, as that number had grown with the weyr actually being able to sense where certain possible partners were in Westeros, if more than one still having a lingering feeling towards Essos.

It didn’t solve the myriad _other_ problems he had to deal with before he could return to campaign, but it would at least be one less to worry over.

Harry couldn’t brood near so well as Rhaegar or Aegon but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his own worries and troubles.

He just didn’t tend to focus on them to the extent his brother and nephew were prone to do.

Perhaps it was because he’d helped hatch and raise the weyr with only help from Balerion and Vaethor, but he was having a hard time with the knowledge that at least one of “his” hatchlings would be leaving his nest – so to speak – for a place in Westeros and the Summerhall weyr.  With a high probability of another and a possible third, Harry felt his heart ache even as he dressed in a rich green tunic with silver and black edgings, his rings and the three-headed dragon pendant Rhaegar had given him for his sixteenth name day in place, Valyrian steel sword sheathed in it’s black dragonhide sheath with golden-thread motifs of dragons and runes, and all topped with the cloak of his house in solid black edged in gold with the golden triple-dragon of his sigil taking up most of his back from shoulder to hip picked out in real-gold thread.  Looking in the beaten silver mirror, he stared at himself, only half-recognizing the man staring back with his streaked silver-gold hair and tall, lean strength of form.

“Come in.”  He called at a knock on the door, his good-sister Queen Lyanna entering with her favored guard, Ser Oswell who’s dark humor messed well with Lya’s own, at her back with a golden casket in his hands.

“Good, you haven’t left for the parade yet.”  Lya moved briskly, her skirts flaring around her.  Lyanna preferred flowing skirts that were a bit stiff as they didn’t hinder her in case she needed to run after one of her children or an attacker.  Being that she was in her family’s seat, Lyanna had chosen a soft grey dress and then topped it with the black-and-crimson cloak of House Targaryen, with a pendant of intertwined dragon and direwolf – a gift on their first anniversary from Rhaegar if Harry remembered correctly – in gold with onyx eyes for the wolf and ruby eyes for the dragon around her elegant neck.

“What mayhem are you courting this morning, Lya?”  Harry asked with a suspicious glance at the casket – the kind with a heavy lock preferred by nobles to carry either coin or jewels – that Ser Oswell held, his far-too-bland face not giving anything away beyond him being a willing accomplice in whatever scheme the Queen of Westeros was working.  “And dragging Os into?”

“Why my dear good-brother.”  Lya gave a mock-gasp, widening her eyes dramatically as she swept across the room, inspecting him from the tips of his dragonhide boots – and best be certain she would learn where he came by dragonhide – to his braided-back gold-and-silver head.  “One would think you don’t trust me at all!”

“I don’t.”  Harry said dead-pan, watching her with caution.  “Not when you’ve recently been riled and have a certain look in your eyes.”

“Well.”  Lya huffed good-naturedly.  It wasn’t as if he was stupid after all, of her good-family Harry had always been the best at predicting her – likely because Lya often thought he’d been born into the wrong family, being a near-Stark in personality and temperament.  “Isn’t that a fine thing to say and when I’ve come to help taking something off those endless lists of yours…”

Harry backtracked post-haste at the threat she let dangle in the air between them.

“Apologies my dear good-sister, you are a paragon of virtues.”  Harry abased himself, Lya barely hanging onto her stern demeanor at the sight, Ser Oswell not quite as up to the challenge of playing stoic when faced with an officiously-playful-groveling Prince Jaeherys Targaryen at his feet.  “Thine wit and wisdom are the balm to every needing soul, thy beauty is beyond compare with your flowing locks of raven hair, your mere smile is a blessing upon all weak, worthless men, your…”

Between the words balm and flowing, Lyanna cracked, giggles pouring out as he pretended to kiss her shoes, finally stopping when she could hardly breathe for laughing and jumping up to his feet once more.

“Fie, stop it you unrepentant rogue.”  Lyanna slapped at his arm even as he bowed and gave her a cheeky grin, then handed over the iron key in her hand that had a loop ready for either being added to a key ring or to his belt pouch for safekeeping.  “Here.  A gift from your family in honor of your new status and position as a Sovereign Prince.”

Head cocked a bit to the side as Ser Oswell set down the casket which upon closer inspection was made of hardened oak planks and banded with steel, about the three hand-lengths long and two wide, and at least another hand-length deep.  Nothing he could think of off the top of his head would need such a case for protection.  Certainly not as a gift from his family, as other than his habitual pair of rings and single pendant, he tended to shun that form of ornamentation, preferring more modest displays of wealth and status through fine materials that felt divine on his skin or having fruit on hand in every season.

Then at Lyanna’s impatient gesture, Harry placed the heavy iron key in the lock and opened the domed lid, letting out a gasp as he saw what his family had seen fit to bestow upon him in recognition of his new office.

“When were these commissioned?”  Harry asked, staring down into the depths of the golden-silk-lined case.  They weren’t the sort of things that one could just walk into any gold worker’s or jewelry-makers and leave with after spending a bit of gold.

No, crowns and circlets had to be commissioned, and as Harry had never seen any of the three in the case before, he knew they were purchased and designed specifically for him.

“After you and my beloved husband struck your agreement at Summerhall.”  Lyanna him, quirking a smile at his shock at her answer.

“There was no way any of you could have been certain…”

“Certain?”  Lyanna interrupted him.  “No.  But wise of it nonetheless.  You weren’t made to stand idle, Jaeherys.  Myself, your mother, and Rhaegar each had a crown or circlet made for the day when you took a throne of your own.  Gifts, from your family and now your closest allies.”

“Thank you, Lyanna.”  Harry took her hand and gave it a squeeze.  “Now, which should I wear today, as I’m assuming that is the reason you’re here, not just to play gift-giver?”

Looking down at the three very different pieces of royal headwear, Lyanna dismissed the plain Valyrian steel circlet with it’s flame motifs at once.  While designed by her for her good-brother, knowing full-well that he wasn’t the sort to sit around in castles or throw feast after feast, it wasn’t the impression he should make at his first real _public_ event as the Sovereign Prince of Valyria.  Which left her to choose from between her good-mother’s design and that of her husband.

The first, designed by her good-mother, was in bright gold and set with rubies and black diamonds, the stones varying in size from the size of a penny to that of a quail egg; while the second was also in Valyrian steel as dictated by her husband, with silver motifs of dragons clutching white diamonds the size of a quail egg in a tear-drop shape alternating with purple Valyrian diamonds in ovals the size of the tip of a woman’s thumb.

“Here.”  She lifted out Rhaegar’s design.  “Your first go at playing sovereign in the public eye,” and no, feasting alongside the nobility didn’t count.  “Should carry all the weight of your office.  Red and black are the colors of House Targaryen of Westeros.  Black with Valyrian purple however, calls to mind the dragonlords of old – even if they were gits to their dragons – and the people will respect that and you more as a separate entity from your brother in the process.”

She would know a thing or two about having to fight for an identity outside of a relationship with Rhaegar Targaryen after all, and a little thing such as differing colors – in her case to bring House Stark to mind – can have a bigger impact than even the most politically-savvy men such as Jaeherys or Rhaegar’s Hand Tywin, knew.

“How do I look, your grace?”  Harry teased after settling the crown – thankfully already cushioned and lined around the inside band in padded black silk – upon his brow.

“Like the end of slavery in Essos, my dear good-brother.”  Lya gave a vicious smile that was echoed by Jaeherys’s own.  “And the foul masters of Slavers Bay and beyond haven’t even a clue…”

…

The pair made their way to the Winterfell great hall, Ser Oswell following along behind, where they met the rest of the royal family present in the North – and old enough to participate in the opening parade/presentation of the tourney.  The three youngest prince and princesses would be staying with their cousins and the other young children who were visiting, under the unerring eyes of a phalanx of septas, nursemaids, and the guard of Prince Lewyn who wasn’t participating in the tourney as some of his sworn brothers were.  Harry found himself with a niece on each arm, the girls set to sit next to him on the royal dais while Daerion – who was too young to participate – would sit beside their parents.

To the crowd, the dais from left to right was filled by Princess Daenerys, Princess Rhaenys, Sovereign Prince Jaeherys, King Rhaegar, Queen Lyanna, Prince Daerion, and ended with their host Lord Rickard and his good-daughter Lady Catelyn who played his hostess after the death of his wife some years before his children began to wed.

Brandon Stark was planning on participating in the melee, Harry believed from what had been bandied about the previous eve, whilst his son and heir Theos would be riding at the joust.  Notably among the sword was his nephew Aegon, along with his uncle Ned, and Ser Arthur Dayne.  Jaime Lannister – likely only to get a crack at Jaeherys – was stepping into the sword ring for the first time since he’d been a much younger man, he like many knights, able to joust longer than compete at the sword, as the latter like the melee and archery contests did not require knighthood in the participants.  Barristan the Bold was by far the oldest competitor, not that his age meant anything.  Ser Barristan would be unseating young, callow knights likely right up until they lit his funeral pyre.

Harry supposed that the parade of knights who drew to a halt in crammed lines along the lists from end to end and still struggled to all fit, made a grand sight with their gleaming suits of armor, bright banners, and handsome horses.  His nieces certainly thought so, though more on the part of Rhaenys, as little Dany at only ten was on the cusp of finding interest in things such as attraction.  Dany liked the horses and the bright colors, but more she liked seeing the people all happy and lavishing her direwolf – whom she’d named Haeri, the little minx – with food from the stalls as she ran around with her cousins with one of the Kingsguard a step behind most days of the tourney.

If there were children in the Seven Kingdoms more known on sight than his silver-haired nephews and nieces, Harry would be shocked.

Aegon and Rhaenys at least had a modicum of ability to blend – when they weren’t wearing either Targaryen colors or house sigil – with the populace surrounding the tourney even with the direwolves as thanks to Harry there were now a dozen or so children with varying shades of hair with a direwolf pup leashed at their side or following at their heels.

It spoke to how quickly animals – at least the more intelligent ones such as horses – could be trained to ignore their own instincts, such as to whinny, scream, and buck in fear at the sight and sound of dragons.

With Viserys being stationed at his home of Summerhall most of the year, many noble houses had begun sending the horses for the use of the lord or in battle to the palace for training to keep them from spooking, a service which has added quite a bit of revenue to the palace, along with the lesser number of nobles who did the same with the Red Keep, monies that flowed straight into the royal coffers after paying the horse trainers for their services.

Even so, after Rhaegar had stood and given his short speech to the crowd regarding the tournament and announcing the official alliance between the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros and the Sovereign Principality of Valyria, more than one knight, squire, and stablehand had a struggle controlling their horses.

One or two dragons were one thing after all.

Over a dozen were another, and even the best-trained creature would panic under duress.

Harry rose at Rhaegar’s gesture to join him at the rail of the dais, standing side-by-side with his brother, the pair shining in their colors and with crowns gleaming upon their heads – Rhaegar’s a much larger crown in gold with flames for points and set with red rubies and orange sunfire topaz stones – and cast a _Sonorous_ upon himself.

He’d been – slowly – using more and more of his magic in public since his family had met him at Summerhall and been introduced to the foundations of the weyr.  Gentling the populace to a sorcerer the way horses had to be gentled into accepting the dragons.  And with much more inconsistent results.

Not that it mattered to Harry, but his family was Westerosi and would always _be_ Westerosi.  It was for them that he made the effort of training the public towards acceptance of his abilities, lest the Faith take it into their heads to start an uprising over the mere _possibility_ that more Targaryens would be born with magic.  They’d never have luck in the North or Dorne, and only limited success in the Crownlands, but those were only three kingdoms, and not the most populous.  The smallfolk loved him, loved his abilities.  But the hightborn…they were always a potential problem.

One that at least the revelation of the other dragons would keep in check if discontented even if said dragons could very well be the cause of their discontent in the first place.

The Great Houses support power, they always have.

Nevertheless, that didn’t mean that there wasn’t anger and resentment over _their_ House not being the ones with the power to rule the others.

“Treasure and riches beyond imagining – that was what all have been told reside in the ruins of Valyria.”  Harry spoke, putting to work all the lessons he’d ever been given on how to sway the hearts and minds of beings with a speech.  He’d once roused a rebel force against lawful evil.  He hoped that _some_ of that charisma had carried over, as he’d never really needed it in his new life other than to get out of trouble when he was younger.  “Stories that are as true as that of a curse upon that land.”

He sent a thought to Balerion.

It was simple, just one word.

_Now._

“Venturing to the ruins of Valyria to test the warnings of curses and monsters and magic, I found all our worst stories of that land were true.  Nothing grew there, stonemen littered the Smoking Sea, and even after four centuries the Fourteen Flames continued to spew fire and ash into the air, making it near-poison to breathe.”  The masses, able to hear him clear as day thanks to his spell, held their breath and clung to the edge of their seat.  For never before since the Doom had anyone ventured to Valyria and returned – at least not with proof and credibility on the side of their words to speak of their deeds.  “However, that was not all that was in Valyria waiting to be found.  All life had been snuffed out of the once-great empire that had spanned the Known World – that is what all have been taught.  All but the last dragonlords of House Targaryen.”  A cheer rose up from the crowd, chanting “Targaryen!” though it mostly arose from the smallfolk, the gentry and nobility refraining from such display and settling for simple applause.  “In the heart of one of the volcanoes, life _did_ survive.  They were the first born of the Elder Dragons of Valyria, and there in that heart of the world did they stay.  Until now.”

Great draconic cries sounded overhead as the horses pranced and wheeled at the great cacophony, Harry drawing all eyes to the sky and the forms that were coming ever-closer, one in particular spewing flames and then diving through them, another spinning in the air, all showing off and reveling in the cries of shock and awe from the people below, eventually coming in and landing, perching – some of them – upon the walls of Winterfell while the rest found gaps between tents or at the ends of the lists.

“Thirteen of those first-born agreed to return with me to Westeros.”  Harry continued, even as Balerion – who to the shock of all but his rider and his friends who had seen him since returning from Valyria had once more _grown_ at an expeditious rate – came in to land behind the dais and near to shook the ground.  “To confirm and cement the claim of House Targaryen of Valyria upon the Valyrian peninsula and accompanying islands.  And also, to cement the alliance between House Targaryen of Westeros and House Targaryen of Valyria in perpetual friendship and family unity.  Their enemies shall be our enemies and their friends our friends from this day until the last day!”

Another cry arose at that, even as more than one noble lord or lady exchanged _looks_ with their counterparts.

As warnings go, it wasn’t his most subtle.

Still, Harry hated having to destroy people for ignorance.

Especially when doing it for stupidity was so much more fun and rewarding.

Rhaegar and Jaeherys both held out their hands for silence, Rhaegar speaking first.

“To seal this alliance, House Targaryen of Westeros has ceded all authority and claim upon the Stepstones and the waters of the Narrow Sea and Summer Sea where it abuts the Stepstones, beginning five miles off the coast of Westeros, to House Targaryen of Valyria, as well as sovereignty over those who petition and are approved for emigration from Westeros to Valyria.”

More than one lord who had lands abutting the waters now ceded to Jaeherys wore scowls, whilst many smallfolk, gentry, and nobility alike had considering looks upon their faces regarding emigration.  From the way it sounded, the reborn Valyria would be accepting more than just men-at-arms for the Dragon Company.  An interesting idea, indeed, especially for those who were stuck in their place in life and discontented, much of them not in a position to inherit and improve their lot in life that way, similar to the second, third, and more sons who had swelled the original recruitment for the Dragon Company.

Especially since all word coming into Westeros by way of merchants and traders had the Stepstones cleared of ruffians and imposing strict-but-fair laws and taxes upon any who pass through their waters from ships to their own people.

“To seal this alliance,” Jaeherys spoke next, motioning for Benjen to come forward in a symbolic moment versus the informal presentation he’d done before.  “House Targaryen of Valyria gifts these relics of House Targaryen back into the hands of House Targaryen of Westeros after being recovered in Essos.”  Gasps rose up as Harry picked up first Blackfyre then Dark Sister and showed each to the crowd before handing them off to Rhaegar who took them with a nod and a smile, then passed Blackfyre in turn along to Ser Arthur to handle for the moment as he slid Dark Sister into the empty longsword sheath on his belt.  “In addition, three of the thirteen of Valyria have agreed to bond with riders of Westeros and join the Summerhall weyr under the sole command of their new commander, as it is not right that a foreign sovereign should have such control over a native weyr.”

That, at least, appeased a few of the more fractious, but unrest was still going to remain.

No monarch or sovereign had ever had the support of _all_ their people and neither brother was naïve enough to think that would ever change.  They simply had to manage what they could and hope that the world wouldn’t tilt out from under them the moment they weren’t looking.  Fortunately for them, they also had canny advisors whose eyes helped watch as well.

The fact that those three dragons would have chosen the same riders _anyway_ didn’t need to be said…ever.

A concession that cost nothing at all but left the other party feeling like they’d been given a king’s ransom was the best kind for any sovereign to make.

At a motion from both king and sovereign prince, the riders cleared the lists, allowing a trio of dragons to land in the clearing, then Harry spoke.

“Ser Arthur Dayne, Ser Renly Baratheon, Ser Cristan Celtigar.”  He waved to the dragons.  “Your companions await.”

…

Meanwhile, two other dragons had sought out their own companions, though one was more glad of it than the other.

Nymeria Sand was no one’s idea of a lady despite her noble blood, but she was as fierce and loyal a companion as her father could be and had veins flowing rich and strong with Valyrian blood thanks to her Volantene mother.  That she was also soon to be Harry’s new Mistress of Whispers was just a plus.

The other…well.

The _best_ description of Sandor Clegane put him as a grumpy, irascible arsehole at the best of times.  Having to watch his even-bigger-arsehole brother swan about playing knight – _hah!_ As if Gregor gave a damn about anything let alone his _knightly_ vows – didn’t help his temper.  He was also one of Harry’s best captains and warriors, being passed into the service of Prince Jaeherys by his liege-lord Tywin Lannister both to serve the Prince and to help protect the handful of Lannisters, including the Imp, that had chosen to go into the Prince’s service and household, Tywin’s brother Gerion with his bastard daughter Joy among them.

Not dragonriders that would have _ever_ been chosen by a lord or a king, but the kind that Harry needed and that suited the dragons who had chosen them nonetheless.

…

All told, the five dragons of the thirteen hatched by Jaeherys in Valyria had brought the Valyrian weyr from sixteen to thirteen and the Summerhall weyr from three to six.

Still quite uneven, but as Harry was certain many of the original thirteen hatched intended to bond with some of his nieces and nephews, not something he worried overmuch about either.

That was a headache for his Hand of the Prince, Tyrion, to fret over.

Harry had a tourney to enjoy with his family before turning his gaze back to his new principality and sorting it before he could at last to turn to his Essosi campaign…and make the world tilt at his doing once more.


	18. Perceptions

** Princes of Silver and Gold **

_Author’s Note: We’re going to be jumping around a lot in this chapter between POVs.  Keep the following in mind once the shifts start happening quickly without being noted:_

Regular font: Jaeherys/Harry’s proximity e.g. Winterfell and the Tourney.

 _Italics:_ Khal Drogo & the Dothraki with Jorah Mormont

The above will also include an understood but not necessarily stated language shift between Common Tongue and Dothraki to go with the POV change.

**Chapter Seventeen: Perception**

After Prince Jaeherys returned from assisting in teaching the new riders a few basics, the rest given that each were grown would have to be worked out between the paired humans and dragons, he arched a brow at the ongoing bout between the Heir of the Eyrie, Ser Edric Arryn, and a minor lordling from the Reach.

Not over the bout, so far the score stood two lances to none on the part of Ser Edric, but on the favor he saw fluttering in the breeze of the galloping destrier when young Ser Edric put spur to flank.

“Are my eyes deceiving me, dear niece?”  Harry waited no longer than a moment to confirm the colors on the favor than he began teasing Rhaenys.  “Or does young Ser Arryn fly Targaryen colors this day?”

Rhaenys blushed in that most-becoming way young ladies had but refused to lower her eyes or let his jest lower her head.

“Ravens have been flying between the Maidenvault and the Eyrie since Edric returned home after his knighting.”  Aegon imparted from his seat on the bench beside Daenerys.  He wouldn’t have his first spar in the sword ring for another hour or two and had stayed after the dragons took wing, only a _bit_ jealous over the others being chosen, though his eyes had been drawn time and again to the blood-red dragon with flashes of white and flame-blue.  He didn’t think that he’d been discounted by the dragons, merely that they all agreed with his uncles and parents over him being truly _ready_.

He supposed, that if anyone knew when a person was ready to become a rider, it would be dragons of Old Valyria.

Not so old anymore though, if he understood the latest political wrangling.

Depending on how successful his uncle was at both his campaign and his rule, Aegon could very well find himself mounting a throne that was the _second_ most powerful in the known world.

Interestingly enough, Aegon found himself at ease with that thought.

The sheer _scope_ of his uncle’s ambitions were vast, as vast as the continent he sought to control in order to stamp out slavery as best as he could.

Aegon wanted smaller things for himself, more modest.

A spouse, a family, and a dragon to go along with his bond to Ghost, those weren’t quite the ambitions one expected from a Targaryen Prince, though perhaps the world might have been better off if they had been.

Except that last of course.

What would a Targaryen Prince be without being at least a little dragon-mad after all?

“He’s well and truly stricken with a young swain’s love.”  Rhaegar sighed, put upon in the way only another father of a beautiful, young, and wealthy eligible woman ever could be.  At least young Arryn was as honorable as that line tended to be, and with wealth enough, and handsome enough of both face and behavior, that Rhaegar could be reasonably sure of his worthiness for his first daughter.  It was a good match.  Whether it would last long enough – on both sides – for Rhaenys to reach sixteen and be of-age to wed was another matter.

“And does the lady reciprocate?”  Jaeherys leaned close to twit at his niece, who only batted at him in irritation and never took her eyes off the lists for a moment.

“They’re twitterpated,” Benjen snorted, leaning over from where he stood sat on the bench behind the royal family, placed there for the Kingsguard to rest and watch the tourney when not on-guard or on the lists or in the rings themselves, but also taken advantage of by those who were close to the royals such as Lyanna’s brothers or their Baratheon cousins.  “Have been struck with love’s sweet-scented arrow and a healthy dose of spring-fever that assaults all young bucks coming of age and sends them falling head-long in love with young ladies before they’re ever aware of it.”

“You need a spouse.”  Lyanna told her brother for the hundredth time in the last week alone.

Benjen reared back and made a warding gesture against her words.

You’d have thought she’d cursed him black-and-blue, so dramatic was his reaction.

All the while, Harry laughed on the inside.

As if Lady Nym wasn’t found more often than naught in his chambers rather than her own these last six turns from all the gossip Tyrion filled him in on.

The only question was whether the soon-to-be Valyrian Mistress of Whispers fancied tying herself to Benjen, as Harry knew his friend and godfather well enough to know that should she wish it, he would meet her at any sept or godswood or temple in a trice to bind his life to hers.  Blacks, as Benjen once was, let alone Starks are the sort that once they give of themselves they’re as constant as the stars.  Harry just hoped that Oberyn didn’t overreact should they marry, as he had little trust or liking for that particular establishment, given that even though he’d been wed in all but name to Ellaria for years, he still refrained from legalizing his union with her.

It wasn’t as if she gave a damn if he played elsewhere after all, she was just as much a devout hedonist as he.

“Twitterpated or not.”  Harry clapped along with the crowd as Rhaenys took up a winter’s rose, which many of the ladies had purchased from stalls for this very purpose, and bestowed it upon Ser Edric as his “reward” for doing “his” lady honor though his victory.  It was all that was appropriate, given that Ser Edric was too honorable to ask for a kiss as reward as many older or married knights were wont to do with their ladies, added to that if he’d dared request as such it would be a battle to see who could jump the barrier first to throttle him: Rhaegar, Jaeherys, Rickard, Benjen, her brothers, the Kingsguard, or even Lyanna.  “It hasn’t effected his performance at all, he shut out his opponent.  Good form on his technique as well.”

“Will you take me around the stalls, Uncle Harry?”  Daenerys asked with a sweet lilt to her voice and a conniving glint in her eye that spoke of some chaos to be sown or sweets to be acquired – or both.

“Of course, little dragoness.”  Harry climbed to his feet and waved off the Kingsguard that would accompany them.  If he couldn’t keep a single niece and himself out of harms’ way, he should hang up his sword.  “We shall away at once to improve your hoard.”

Dany giggled, her direwolf pup cuddled in her arms as he swooped her up into his arms and didn’t set her back down until they’d reached the relatively-clear aisles of stalls that had been set up by traveling merchants and traders to take advantage of the tourney custom.

Harry eyed his niece and the people lingering over bolts of silk or wool or barrels of wine or so on, making certain that she had one hand locked in his off-hand before leading her along the aisle, their first target: sweet marzipan made by one of the Winterfell bakers with ingredients likely sourced only that morn from the traders.

“Uncle Harry?”  Sweet little Dany asked after seeing some ladies hiss at the sight of them and turn away.  “Why do they do that?”

“Do what, little dragoness?”

Dany frowned.  “Look scared of you.”

“Ah.”  Harry lifted his head from where he’d been studying a rather nice set of blank bound-parchment books for use such as recordkeeping or accounting.  He’d seen much better in Pentos, but gold was as good as buying goodwill among many merchants and smallfolk.  “That, my darling one, is a matter of perception.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well…”

…

_Khal Drogo’s Manse, Pentos_

_Jorah wished he could say he was surprised to find a cloud of gloom mixed with temper had settled over Drogo – and by default Cohollo, Qotho, and Haggo – but he wasn’t._

_Prince Jaeherys along with Ser Benjen and Tyrion Lannister had been well-away from Pentos and the manse of Mopatis before Khal Moro’s kos had come for them in revenge for the insult Jaeherys paid to their traditions by taking the khalakka rather than let the babe be killed, the khal’s daughter with him.  With no Jaeherys in sight, the kos had divided, infighting breaking out among them.  Drogo had offered a place in his khalasar to a few of the kos who were older and had no desire to follow their fellows, in all expanding his own khalasar by a good five thousand Dothraki while the remaining seven thousand were split three ways between the strongest remaining kos who took their place as Khals at the tip of an arakh and striking down the weaker kos who did not seek the protection of Drogo’s khalasar._

_Drogo had no been best pleased at the disappearance of Jaeherys, though only his bloodriders and Jorah had a good idea of_ why _._

_A why that had nothing to do with the disregard for a specific aspect of Dothraki culture and everything to do with the green-eyed dragonrider who had observed their traditions – but only to a point – before showing said disregard._

_It wasn’t rarity, as some might think, that had drawn Drogo’s eye._

_Jaeherys was hardly the first person with golden or silver hair in Essos, nor the first two-natured.  He wasn’t the first warrior by far, nor the first Prince, though he_ was _the first dragonrider the Dothraki had ever met in living memory.  Jaeherys was a mixture of rare traits, yes, but not to the point where it made him desirable for that alone._

_If Jorah had to guess at what caught Drogo’s eye, it was the moment Jaeherys dismounted a dragon as easily as strolling down the steps of the Water Gardens in Dorne: all lethal grace and two-natured beauty with eyes greener than any other could claim._

_A regard that wasn’t entirely unrequited, given that those green eyes had been drawn to copper skin and dark eyes more than once in the pair of times the two had been near each other._

_But from the way Drogo was acting, one would think that it was Jaeherys who had fallen in combat, not Moro, as he stomped around the manse like a bear with a sore paw._

_“You know he will return.”  Jorah finally told him when he grew tired of the sight, drinking as he was with the khal and his bloodriders as Drogo had requested his presence once more.  Drogo was nothing less than_ sulking _into his pepper beer no matter what his bloodriders spoke of in an attempt to draw him out of it.  “Jaeherys.”_

_Dark eyes lifted from the fine golden cup that was cradled between massive hands, a spark flaring and wiping away the gloom._

_The bloodriders grew quiet at this, content to listen and watch as Jorah spoke to Drogo of the two-natured that had ever been on his mind these last days._

_Jorah nodded in confirmation of his words.  “Word has it that he has taken control of southron Valyria along with the Stepstones: everything that was once the peninsula that is now south of the Smoking Sea.  He will return to Essos to firm up his claim to his ancestral lands.  In time, he will likely cross the Smoking Sea to claim the rest of it as well.”_

_“Which lands?”  Drogo asked in his deep rumbling voice._

_“Mantarys and Tolos both were Valyrian.”  Jorah told him honestly.  “Long before the dragonlords stretched out their Freehold, those were theirs.  Volantis, Myr, Lys, Tyrosh, Pentos, Qohor, the Basilisk Isles, the cities of Slaver’s Bay and Old Ghis.  All once belonged to the dragonlords.  If Jaeherys wants them, he’ll try to take them.”_

_Drogo arched an impressed brow at that even as his bloodriders muttered amongst themselves.  Some of those lands laid across the poison waters but not all._

_Jorah was right: if Jaeherys wanted them, he’d have to take them._

_Which meant returning to the lands bordering the Great Grass Sea._

_“When?”_

_“Campaigns take time, you know this.”  Jorah told him with a shrug of a shoulder.  “Could be a year or more.  Could be less.  It depends on his plans.”_

_Time enough, Jorah hoped, for Drogo to get over his infatuation with silver-gold hair and green eyes._

_Or perhaps not, with what Drogo asked him next._

…

“Well…”  Jaeherys searched for the words to tell his niece truths without frightening her.  “Sometimes people are frightened of things they don’t understand.  They like boxes, set things they can say about things or people.  They don’t like it when something or someone doesn’t abide by that sort of thing.”

“Why?”

…

_“What are the Valyr-ian,” Drogo tested out the word.  “Ways for taking a khaleesi?”_

_Jorah smothered a curse._

_This was worse than he’d thought – more than simple lust if he was asking that question._

_Damn Targaryens and their pretty faces and prettier eyes to all the seven hells anyway._

_…_

“Because people don’t like to have to think about things.”  Jaeherys decided.  “And throwing a label or a name on something is an easy way of not having to think.  A stone is a stone.  A baker is a baker.”

“A prince is a prince.”  Daenerys nodded to show that she was following.  “But you’re not just a prince.”  She pointed out.

“No, no I’m not.”  Harry looked down, a half-smiled tugging at his mouth in pride at the quick little dragoness.  “Therein lies both the problem for them and the cause of their fear.  I’m _more_ than what they can easily label.  To them, that makes me frightening or dangerous.”

“Why?”

…

_“It depends on the khal and who they seek to marry.”  Jorah told him, fighting to keep his face blank to avoid insulting Drogo.  The Dothraki might consider him a friend but insult him and not even friendship could save you.  “In most cases of sons and daughters born to a khal, their parents choose for them.”_

_Drogo nodded, this wasn’t unheard-of for the Dothraki, many peoples they give gifts to or war against did the same, even some Dothraki chose brides for their sons or husbands for their daughters, but it was rare for them.  Most Dothraki made their own choice.  Or took what they wanted if the father or older brother of their desired was being troublesome._

_“Other times.”  Jorah held in a sigh, locking his gaze on the fire.  “Valyrians such as Khal Jaeherys are free to make their own choice.  Sometimes choosing more than one wife or husband or two-natured consort.  Khal-of-Khals Rhaegar made his own choice and has given his brothers and children leave to do the same.”_

_…_

“Because things without labels are things you don’t know how to control, dear one.”  Harry looked down into her too-serious purple eyes.  “And that scares people the most about me more than anything else.”

…

_“How do they choose?”  Drogo brought the conversation full-circle._

_“It depends.”  Jorah shifted.  “Sometimes for love.  Sometimes for power.  Sometimes for children.  Khal-of-Khals Rhaegar married Khaleesi Lyanna for all three.  She is beautiful, one of the most beautiful women in_ Westeros _, from a powerful family rich with the blood of the First Men, and from a line known for having several healthy children most generations.  She is as perfect a match as could be for a Khal-of-Khals.  But,” Jorah admitted.  “It wasn’t until she caught his eye at_ Harrenhal _that Rhaegar decided on her, as there were other women as beautiful, powerful, and likely to give him children from the families of his Khals who had been put forward as possible brides for the powerful Rhaegar.”_

_“Why did he choose her?”_

_“The story has it that it was love at first sight, but that’s a bard’s nonsense as they’d met several times before_ Harrenhal _.”  Jorah imparted, giving in.  Drogo wanted to know what drew a dragon, so Jorah would tell him the little he knew.  “Rumor among the North was that Lyanna rode in the joust against a trio of knights because their squires had been abusing her friend.”  Jorah changed his wording when he saw the confusion on Drogo’s face.  “She fought three trained warriors and defeated them while pretending to be a knight.  No one ever knew for certain who the knight was, their helm concealed their face and their shield only had a laughing_ weirwood _tree upon it.  That Rhaegar found Lyanna hiding the shield so her father and brothers wouldn’t scold her for putting herself in danger and within days the match was announced.  She surprised him.  More, she did something unexpected, that showed she was more than a pretty decoration for his bed and a hostess for his table.  That’s how Khal Jaeherys’s brother chose his khaleesi.”_

_Drogo stared into the fire a thoughtful look on his face, only interrupted by one of his bloodriders._

_“Why this pretty dragon, Drogo?”  Cohollo asked.  “We could find a hundred prettier two-natured boys in Yunkai or any other city.  Or a beautiful girl.  Why this one?”_

_“Because.”  Drogo said simply.  “A hundred pretty boys or beautiful girls do not make one dragon.”_

_“They don’t run the risk of getting your cock burned off either.”  Haggo grumbled, the rest snorting laughs at that, even Drogo._

_…_

“Worn out from running after Dany?”  Benjen asked as he came to find Jaeherys for the banquet that night, their niece having run Harry ragged all through the merchants and traders who had set up a tent-city outside Winter Town along with the tents of the knights and lords and others who weren’t of high enough station to be quartered at Winterfell for the tourney.

“More tired of the word _why_.”  Harry groaned, throwing one arm over his eyes.

He’d collapsed onto the bed not long after he’d dropped Daenerys off with the septas for the evening, going straight to his room and setting his circlet aside so he could rest his eyes – and his tired brain.  Sharp as a whip.  But _damn_ was keeping up with the turns her mind could take a challenge.  Besides which, he hadn’t slept well in what felt like ages but was probably about a week.

Since leaving Valyria really.

Hard to believe so much had happened since taking wing from the recovering lands on Balerion’s back just a handful of days ago.

Benjen rolled his eyes and slapped Harry’s leg impatiently, the Valyrian steel cloak pin in the shape of an open scroll in front of a sword surrounded by a circle – the pin of the Master of Laws for the Principality of Valyria – gleaming in the candlelight, much like the simple etched Valyrian steel circlet that Jaeherys had set out to wear to the banquet.  It would be the first time his selected Small Council as well as the Dragonguard – or at least the beginnings of the latter, Harry intending to eventually have at least a dozen to make patrols and guard duties easier on his guard than the seven Kingsguard who followed his brother and his family around had it – would be attending in their proper regalia and sigils of office.  The offers had been made and quietly accepted and oaths sworn the previous eve after Jaeherys’s “discussion” with his brother.  Some of his Dragonguard – or soon-to-be Dragonguard – were with the rest of his men-at-arms in the Stepstones.  The rest, at least those he’d already chosen, had accepted their black scale armor and cloaks, or their pins of office for the Small Council, this morn though they hadn’t been flaunted at the tourney due to wanting to wait for Rhaegar’s announcement.

Black cloaks with the golden three-headed dragon, the black-and-gold that Harry had taken as the sigil for House Targaryen of Valyria, now adorned the black-scale-armored shoulders of Bryndyn the Blackfish Tully, Garlan Tyrell, Lucion Lannister, Ryon Allyrion, Mark Ryswell, Obara Sand, Sandor Clegane, and Aron Santagar, with the cloaks for Arys Oakheart, Balon Swann, Alic Dondarrion, and Kyle Royce having to wait until Harry returned to Bloodstone.  Harry wanted to add another guard or two, as well as selecting a “first sword” to help manage the unit as a second in command for the Lord Commander Ser Bryndyn, but that would have to wait until more knights or warriors distinguished themselves.  For now those who already held renown or who’d fought well and true during the conquest of the Stepstones had been honored.

Harry didn’t hold to the same oaths as the Kingsguard either, at least in one respect.

He didn’t demand celibacy from them so long as they behaved in such matters with the dignity and respect demanded of knights and warriors of high office, nor did he deny them wives or children so long as their first duty was to the crown.

Grumbling all the way, Harry climbed to his feet and straightened his black silk tunic with silver and gold embroidery, then set his circlet in place with a sigh and a sticking spell after a flick of his fingers – and power – had his wild golden-silver mane pulled back at his temples and tied simply, showing off his finely featured face.  Striding from the room with Benjen at his side, they met with the members of his guard on duty this nigh during the feast: Ser Garlan, Ser Ryon, and making a statement of his own in his black cloaked edged with a double border of thin gold and a Valyrian steel cloak pin with the shield and laurel of the Lord Commander of the Dragonguard was Ser Bryndyn.  They met with the members of the Small Council at the entryway to the feast, at least those at Winterfell.  Gleaming black leather embroidered with the golden lion of House Lannister, with the fist encircled with a laurel ring set with a crown was Tyrion as Harry’s Hand of the Prince, while Lady Nym was resplendent in a black and purple gown of Dornish silks, her own pin as Mistress of Whispers in place over her breast.

Three members of the Small Council – whether they knew it yet or not – were in the Stepstones: Master of Coin Ser Gerion Lannister, Master of Ships Captain Davos Seaworth, and Maester Gormon Tyrell.

So, a diminished party not quite up to their full glory, but making a spectacle nonetheless.

Harry quite honestly had no interest in _not_ making a spectacle until the day he had to take wing for Summerhall with the newest dragon riders, including the new weyr commander Ser Arthur Dayne, to visit for however short a time with his brother before stopping at King’s Landing for his mother to scold him happily on his way back to the Stepstones.

There were coins to mint, a bank to officially open with the riches of Valyria, and still the representatives of the Golden Company, including one Aegon Blackfyre, to treat with.

No, he couldn’t tarry in Westeros for long.

But as his hands were grasped by his three-year-old twin nieces Iara and Rhaelyn with their bouncing golden hair and bright purple-blue eyes, he found that he didn’t worry overmuch about the next week or so that would delay his return to his burgeoning Principality.

And if his twenty-two-year-old cock didn’t quite control itself in the nights as his dreams were filled with copper skin and flashing black eyes, that was nobody’s business but his and his left hand.

…

_The next day Drogo found Jorah sharpening his sword as he sat in one of the many rooms of Drogo’s manse, a raven’s message curled on the table in front of him._

_“News?”  Drogo asked as he poured himself a goblet of wine from the flagon on the table before sprawling in the chair opposite his strange First-Man friend with his sand-colored hair and sky-colored eyes.  “From your home?”  He guessed at the deep frown Jorah wore, as he always did when messages came for the displaced knight from Rhaesh Andahli._

_Jorah’s words had helped soothe the lion that clawed in Drogo’s breast and roared with want ever since he’d seen Jaeherys Targaryen mounted upon a dragon.  His heart had decided in that moment with his mind not far behind.  Jaeherys_ would _be his.  But even as strong a warrior as Drogo couldn’t fight the very sea or the air for his khaleesi._

_He would have to wait._

_He would have to be patient._

_And if Jorah was right, someday – hopefully soon – the golden-haired dragon Prince would return to Essos…and Drogo would be waiting with a bride-gift befitting such a glorious creature._

_He’d already given the order, his khalasaar was making ready to depart._

_He simply hoped that Jorah came with him, Drogo needing his knowledge of what the man called_ Westerosi _ways now more than ever._

 _“Yes, news from home.”  Jorah sighed, setting aside his whetstone and lifting his eyes from his work, not wanting to mar his blade-edge from distraction.  “Jaeherys has been announced the_ Sovereign Prince of Valryia _, forged and bonded an alliance with his elder brother between the lands conquered by himself and those ruled by his brother.”  He shook his head.  “Which means he is set to his path: he has no choice now but to return to Essos and defend the lands he’s claimed out from under the grasping reach of the Volantis triarchs.”  He smirked a little at his friend.  “You might get your wish for a reunion sooner than I thought, my friend.”_

_Drogo gave a satisfied smile at that, dark eyes gleaming._

_“Will you come with us?”  He asked the older man._

_“And leave you to have all the fun?”  Jorah snorted, rolling his eyes as he reached out and took up his own goblet of wine, toasting Drogo.  “What kind of mercenary do you take me for?”_

…

 


End file.
